


Which Way Home

by JhanaMay



Series: Witch Way [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Depression, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Minor Ellen Harvelle/Bobby Singer, Minor Jessica Moore/Sam Winchester, Neo-Paganism, Past Balthazar/Castiel, Past Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Wiccan Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:25:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4978855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/pseuds/JhanaMay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Time heals a broken heart, or at least that’s what Dean hears. He isn’t putting much stock in that old adage, though. Tired of the heartache, Dean decides to visit a local pagan book store to see if he can find a witch to cast a spell on him to heal his broken heart.  He’s not sure what to expect, but the blue eyed, tousle-haired proprietor sure isn’t it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! My 2015 DCBB. I originally intended [Say Something](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4509762) to be my submission for this year, but I quickly realized there was no way I was going to be able to finish it by the deadline. Not wanting to drop out, I came up with a new idea and completely plotted this story while driving 5 1/2 hours to Virginia for my best friend's wedding by talking into the voice recorder on my phone.
> 
> There is definitely going to be a smuttier sequel to this, plus a few timestamps at least, so if you enjoy this story, keep an eye here, on [Tumblr](http://jhanamay.tumblr.com/) or on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/SPNJhanaMay) for more. I probably won't get to them until after Say Something is finished, though.
> 
> I want to give thanks to my awesome beta [padaleckhi](http://padaleckhi.tumblr.com/) . She tamed the wild commas and helped me produce a much tighter story in general. 
> 
> Also, a big shout out to my artist [queeniebroccolini](http://queeniebroccolini.tumblr.com/), for drawing the amazing art for my fic. I was so excited to have her pick my story! You can find the master post on [LiveJournal](http://asylumbound360.livejournal.com/4174.html).
> 
>  [](http://s102.photobucket.com/user/kirchnsr/media/347b4461-b68d-4ae9-a685-7a946ca81115_zpsfaz6urvs.png.html)  
> 

Dean flops back onto the couch, liquid sloshing wetly against the inside of the half empty beer bottle he holds. The cushions on the old couch are stiff against his back and legs, but his body aches constantly anyway so it doesn’t really matter. Dean runs one hand over his face, letting his eyes drift closed. Another Friday night means he has nothing to look forward to other than his own thoughts for the next two days.

More out of habit rather than an actual desire to watch it, Dean hits the power button on the TV remote. He can’t afford cable TV, no matter what their spiel is, so Netflix is his only option. After cycling through the entire series of menus twice, he is ready to give up and just drink himself to sleep in silence.

Reaching out to the coffee table, he shoves the stack of pizza boxes to make room for his empty beer bottle. Three, or was that four? He lost track after the two shots he poured right after he stumbled in from work. The shot glass and mostly empty bottle of Jameson still sit on the counter where he left them amidst dirty dishes and a pile of foam take-out containers. Pushing the boxes back knocks three more empty beer bottles to the floor with a thud, but Dean can’t bring himself to care.

He starts another carousel of the Netflix menus just as his phone plays the opening guitar riff of _Smoke on the Water._ That would be Sam, doing his brotherly duty of checking in on Dean. He tugs the phone out of the pocket of his sweat pants and considers shutting it off, but the last time Dean ignored Sam’s calls he ended up with 6 feet 4 inches of pissed off baby brother on his doorstep.

Resigned, he thumbs the screen and puts the phone up to his ear. “Heya, Sammy. What’s up?” he answers with forced cheer.

“Cut the shit, Dean,” Sam shoots back. “You’re already what, half a six-pack in? Maybe a couple of shots? I can hear the slur in your voice. You can’t keep doing this.”

“Jesus Christ, Sam, you call just to lecture me?” Dean barks, a headache starting behind his eyes. Why does his brother have to be so fucking _earnest_ all the time?

“I called to invite you to dinner. Jess misses you. Hell, we both miss you. When was the last time you left that shit-hole apartment?”

Still absently scrolling the menus on the TV screen, Dean is tired of this conversation already. “I go out, man,” he mutters petulantly. It’s true, technically. He does go out to work, and to run to the little grocery store around the corner when he gets sick of carry out pizza and delivered Chinese.

“You can’t keep doing this,” Sam murmurs, his voice low and consoling now. “It sucks things ended the way they did with Lisa, but it’s been three months. You need to move on.”

It’s been three months, two weeks and six days since he came home from work and found everything he owned stacked in boxes by the front door of the apartment he and Lisa were sharing for three years.  Just goes to show Sam’s big smarty-pants brain doesn’t know everything. “I’m just takin’ some me-time.”

Sam makes a rude noise. “Me-time is not the same as moping in that hole in the wall. The invitation is still open for you to move in here, you know.”

Dean screws his eyes shut. He does miss Sam and Jess and their two-year old daughter, Sarah. He misses his friends and he misses Friday nights hanging out at the Roadhouse, shooting darts and laughing. But he can’t stand the thought of facing their pity, the concern he’ll see on their faces. What is he supposed to say when they offer their condolences over his girlfriend, who he was going to ask to marry him, kicking him out in favor of another guy? He’s just supposed to move into Sam’s guestroom like a loser? Better to _mope_ in the tiny apartment he can barely afford than be forced to stomach that.

“I need my space, Sammy. I’m good here. Gonna get back on the horse soon, I promise. It’s just taking me a little longer than I thought to shake this off.”

“I know she hurt you, but your family, we’re here for you. I wish you’d let us help you.”

Dean chokes back the lump in his throat at the concern in Sam’s voice. “Yeah, man, I know. It’s good. I’ll think about dinner, okay? I’ll give you a call and we’ll figure out a time.”

Sam seems to recognize he’s pushed Dean as far as he can today. He accepts Dean’s hollow promise with a sigh before ending the call. Dean shoves the phone back into his pocket and closes his eyes. He never knew anything could fucking _hurt_ like this.

This is certainly not how he thought his life was going to be six months ago. He gets up every weekday and drags himself to Bobby’s garage. He puts in the work and then drags himself home. He swallows a six-pack and watches Netflix while he forces down what is usually his only meal of the day. He doesn’t have to look in the mirror to know he’s lost weight, not with the way his sweats hang on his hips now. Weekends are even worse, because he has no reason to even leave his tiny twin bed. He’s a wreck and he knows it, but he doesn’t know what to do about it.

Across the room, the TV comes to life, the opening scenes of a movie he doesn’t recognize playing. He feels the remote pressing into his back and he reaches under himself to dig it out. He must have pushed the start button when he leaned back on it. He pushes the back button to bring up the description of the movie. _The Craft_. Huh. The title image shows four teenage girls in sexed-up prep-school uniforms. _A newcomer to a Catholic prep high school falls in with a trio of outcast teenage girls who practice witchcraft and they all soon conjure up various spells and curses against those who even slightly anger them,_ the description reads. Dean has heard of it, but never seen the movie. A movie about getting revenge on the people who have wronged you? He can get behind that. And if nothing else, Neve Campbell is hot.

An hour later, the girls are seeing the payoff of their spells, and Dean is half asleep on the couch, another beer wedged into the cushions beside him.  Sarah’s love spell plays out on the screen and the young jock is suddenly head over heads for her. Dean wonders idly if a spell would work the opposite way, to get rid of this gaping hole in his chest and the pain he feels every time he thinks about Lisa.

The breakup hit him out of the blue. He never had even an inkling anything was wrong until the day she told him she’d fallen in love with someone else, a resident at the hospital where she worked. Prior to the breakup, they spent what seemed like every waking moment together doing all the things she liked to do. Eating at the little café downtown that didn’t even serve pie, watching movies with subtitles where Dean barely understood the plot, and snuggling on the couch while she devoured yet another version of _Real Housewives of Someplace or Another_. Where did he go wrong?

Thinking about Lisa reminds Dean of the little storefront tucked in next to the café Lisa liked. They chuckled and made jokes about the cauldrons and crystals in the front window every time they passed. He wonders if it is like the place in the movie, with a hot witch selling magical spells. Maybe he can find a witch there who will do an anti-love spell on him, he thinks. At this point, he is willing to try anything to stop this dull ache.

Dean pulls out his phone and does some quick searches, landing on the webpage for a place called _Witch Way_. Cute. The information on the page tells him they offer supplies for the _occult practitioner_ , whatever the hell that is, and they’ll be open at ten the following morning. It’s already after midnight, so Dean stops the movie and stumbles to his room, hopeful for the first time in three months, two weeks and six days. Maybe this is just what he needs to finally get over Lisa.

* * *

* * *

Dean scratches his fingers absently through the scruff covering his jawline. It’s been almost a week since he’s had the energy to shave and his boss at the garage has been nagging him. Considering the older man has a grizzled beard of his own, Dean isn’t really sure why it bothers Bobby so much that Dean stopped shaving regularly.

Dragging himself out of bed with a hangover this morning was harder than he expected. Downing a bottle of water instead of coffee, Dean stumbled through a shower and pulled on a well-worn pair of jeans with an old flannel shirt and his work boots. Now he finds himself standing awkwardly on the sidewalk in Lawrence’s historic district, wondering why his alcohol soaked brain thought this was a good idea.

Glancing up at the sign above the door, Dean thinks about just going home. _Witch Way_ is painted in dark purple letters on a white background. To his left sits _Gabriel’s_ , the bakery/coffee shop Lisa dragged him to every week. To the right is a used book store advertising a full collection of fantasy, history and romance books. Dean takes a deep breath and pushes through the front door.

A tiny wind chime dances in the breeze caused by his entrance into the shop, its tinkling barely audible over the pipe and drum music playing. The shop looks pretty much like Dean expected. Crystals, candles, and various tools cover the shelves on all sides of him. Statues of what Dean assumes are pagan gods and goddesses line the walls and the cases to the left hold jars of herbs in a rainbow of colors. The other side of the storefront is lined with bookshelves.

Dean resolutely marches toward the back of the shop where a counter is tucked away in the corner behind a glass-fronted case holding a variety of wands. His forward progress grinds to a halt next to a display of tarot cards and runes. If the shop is exactly what Dean imagined, the man behind the counter is anything but.

He’s several inches taller than the woman he’s talking to, slender but not thin. Thick dark hair curls over his ears and sticks up in all directions, looking like he just came in from a summer storm. His dark cream linen pants hug his hips, barely covered by a soft blue shirt. A bracelet of wooden beads hangs from his wrist and sways delicately as he accents whatever he is saying to the woman. His eyes are so strikingly blue they seem to almost glow in the dim light. The barest sprinkling of stubble covers his jaw, as if he forgot to shave this morning.

He chuckles at something the woman said, his grin broad and welcoming, laugh lines forming at the corners of his eyes. Dean watches as the woman takes a brown paper bag from the man, then turns toward the door.

“Oh,” she says, almost running into Dean as he’s lingering like a stalker, “Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”  She turns back to flip a friendly wave at the man behind the counter before breezing past Dean in a cloud of flowery perfume.

“Welcome to Witch Way,” he offers with another generous smile. His voice is not what Dean was expecting either, low and raspy, like honey over gravel. “If we don’t have what you’re looking for, we can special order books and supplies. Is there, ah, anything in particular you’re looking for?” He falters a little when he takes in Dean’s tense stance.

Dean clasps a hand to the back of his neck, squeezing absently. “You, you’re a dude,” he finally stammers, feeling his face turn red.

The man looks down at himself as if checking the veracity of the statement, patting his hands down over his chest to his abdomen. He meets Dean’s stare, cocking one eyebrow wryly. “Well, look at that!” he exclaims, then with more sarcasm, “Why, yes, it appears that I am. You’re confused by that?”

Dean flushes even harder, but he can’t seem to stop his mouth from rambling. “I just, I didn’t realize, I mean, can a dude even be a witch? Are you a warlock or something?”

The man’s eyebrows draw together with his frown. He tilts his head slightly to the side and squints as he studies Dean like he’s a particularly unpleasant insect. His sigh is long-suffering. “Yes, a male witch is still a witch. The term warlock is not a particularly pleasant one,” he explains slowly, with a minimum of patience.

“Oh, ah, okay. Well then,” Dean stutters. He’s not sure where to go with this. How does this even work?

“Are you looking for something in particular?” the man asks, his voice losing more of its tone of patience with every word. “Or did you just come in to gawk?”

Dean considers how to explain what he needs and decides to just spit it out. “I need you to put a spell on me. I mean, cast a spell, or whatever you call it.”

The man’s eyes go wide, then narrow. His voice is utterly devoid of patience now, dropping another octave into a growl, “A spell?”

“Ah, yeah, you know, an anti-love spell, or whatever.” Dean’s discomfort is growing by the second. “Do you know how to do that?”

“Oh, I assure you, I know how. What is a mystery is why you think I would.” The man’s posture is stiff now, as if he’s affronted by the request.

“Isn’t that what you do? I mean, put spells on people?” Dean is confused now. Why is this guy acting like Dean insulted him?

“I assure you, we do not put spells on people,’” he responds haughtily, “We help people find the power inside themselves, but we do not do manipulative magic. An it harm none.” The last bit sounds like a quote of something, but Dean doesn’t recognize it.

“So you’re not going to help me? What a fucking waste of time,” he mutters angrily, turning away. Just like everything else in his stupid fucked up life.

“Perhaps if you learned some manners and did some research before barging in here making demands and insulting me, you’d find what you’re looking for,” the man offers in a tight voice.

“Thanks for nothing, buddy,” Dean snaps, yanking the door handle harder than he needs to. The door slams behind him and he’s back on the sidewalk. There’s no fucking point anyway. He’s broken. Lisa knew it, that’s why she threw him away. It was stupid to think some spell out of a fairy tale could fix him. Dean trudges toward home, where his couch and an unopened fifth of Jack Daniels waits for him.


	2. Chapter 2

The din of air tools and the crappy radio station Garth likes to listen to has Dean’s head pounding by lunch time on Monday. After his failed field trip on Saturday, Dean fell onto the couch and drank himself through the rest of the weekend. Thankfully Sam didn’t call again, but Bobby looked less than pleased by Dean’s condition when he stumbled into work this morning.

Dean is working in the back bay of the garage, changing a set of spark plugs on a blue Corolla. After the tenth time he snapped at someone, Bobby slapped him on the back of the head, ignoring Dean’s pained yelp, and ordered him to the back of the garage. “And stay back there ‘til you pull your fool head outta your ass,” he grumbled as he stomped away, muttering about _damn idjits_ under his breath.

Three months, three weeks and two days. Dean wants to crawl under the car, curl up and not wake up until the pain stops, except he’s beginning to worry it never will. How do other people survive this? He thinks he understands why his father drank himself to death after his mother died. The pain just seems like it’s too much to live with forever.

When he stands up from under the hood to walk around the car, Bobby is leaning against the workbench watching him. “What?” Dean snaps, throwing his hand tools into the top drawer of his tool box.

“Watch yourself, boy,” Bobby growls back. “I didn’t piss in your Wheaties.”

Dean sighs, scrubbing a filthy hand over his face. He doesn’t even care that he smears grease across his cheeks. “Sorry, Bobby, just havin’ a bad day.”

“Bullshit. You been havin’ a bad couple a’ months.” He watches in silence while Dean cleans his tools with a shop rag and slams the hood on the Corolla. He still doesn’t speak when Dean calls for Maggie to drive the car back out to the front lot and signs off on the customer paperwork. Finally, as Dean looks at the docket sheet to see what else is on the schedule, Bobby says, “Go home.”

“It’s only 3:30. I can get this oil change done.”

“Garth can do it. There’s nothin’ else on the schedule besides the tire job on the truck Benny’s been wrestlin’ with all day. Go home and call your brother.”

Dean glances up at him suspiciously. This is what happens when you work for the man who raised you after your dad wrapped his pick-up truck around a telephone pole. “What’d he say to you?”

Bobby sighs. “That he’s worried about you. We all are, Dean. You look like death. You lose much more weight and I’m gonna have to order new jumpsuits for you ‘cause those ones are gonna fall right off. You’ve had a hangover every day for weeks.”

Dean doesn’t respond, just slams the drawers on his rollaway and stalks away toward the break room. It’s not much of an angry exit, considering Bobby follows. Dean strips out of his jumpsuit and shrugs his flannel back on over his t-shirt. Bobby doesn’t say a word until he’s grabbing his wallet and keys off the top shelf of his locker.

“Even if you don’t call your brother, stop by the Roadhouse and pick up some dinner. You know Ellen would love to cook something for you.”

Dean begins to sway to the guilt trip. Ellen Harvelle has been like a mother to Dean and Sam since theirs died in a fire when they were children. Although she makes the best cheeseburgers in the city, the thought of food makes Dean’s stomach sour. “Yeah, okay, I’ll stop over.”

Bobby clasps him on the shoulder. “Now get out of here, ‘fore we both start growin’ lady parts.”

* * *

* * *

Dean slides behind the wheel of his car, a completely restored black 1967 Chevy Impala his father left him. Dean has always been thankful John Winchester wasn’t driving the Impala the night he never made it home from the bar. This car has gotten him through a lot of bad times, but he hasn’t even felt like driving her since Lisa. Lisa didn’t like his car, always complaining it was too loud, and now that's all he can think about when he slips into the driver’s seat. Was that one of the things that drove Lisa away?

Despite his promise to Bobby, Dean turns the wheel to head toward his apartment instead of the Roadhouse. He’s not really in the mood to have Ellen fuss over him and he wouldn’t be able to choke down the burger anyway. The constant lump in his throat seems overwhelming today.

Taking side roads toward his neighborhood, Dean passes by the historic district. He wonders if the same guy is working at the witch store today. Does he own it or just work there? If he stops in again, will he find someone who is more willing to help him? Before he can talk himself out of it, he turns down the street and finds a space a few storefronts away.

Dean hesitantly pushes through the front door this time. There’s no music playing so the tinkling of the chimes seems louder. He’s stepping toward the counter when a familiar deep voice stops him. “Be right with you.”

Dean turns to exit the store like the coward he is when the man comes around the corner of the shelves. They both stop in some kind of weird stare off, neither willing to be the first to speak. He’s wearing a lighter cream colored pair of pants today and his loose shirt is green now. His hair is still messy, like it’s permanently disheveled.

“I, ah, hey,” Dean says awkwardly, losing their uncomfortable showdown.

The man blinks, his eyes impossibly bluer in the light streaming in from the front window. “You came back,” he says in an unfriendly tone of voice. He turns to continue stocking crystals on the shelf around the corner.

“Yeah, I, ah, I’m sorry about the other day,” Dean says. Well, hell, that wasn’t what he meant to say. Apologizing to the arrogant asshole was nowhere on his list of plans for today.

Blue eyes snap back to his.  “You are?” the man asks, sounding genuinely surprised. Wow, had Dean really been that much of a dick?

On a roll now, Dean takes a step farther into the shop. “Yeah, I realize I was an ass. I didn’t mean to insult you, I just don’t know anything about this stuff,” he says, waving his hand around in a motion meant to encompass the entire storefront.

“Then why did you come in here?” the man asks, his tone thawing slightly but still guarded.

“I don’t know, really. I saw this movie, and I realize real life isn’t like in a movie, but I thought there might be someone who could help me here,” Dean admits in a rush.

The man does the squinty-eyed, head tilting thing again. “Help you with what?”

Dean takes a deep breath and answers honestly, “Healing a broken heart.” He glances away at the sudden softening of the man’s expression. There it is, the pity he’s been trying to avoid.

The man steps forward, right into Dean’s personal space, studying Dean’s face intently. It’s incredibly uncomfortable to be the target of his piercing gaze, but Dean doesn’t back away. “You have a broken heart?” the man asks quietly.

Dean nods. “My girlfriend kicked me out. I was gonna ask her to marry me and one day I came home from work to find all my stuff packed in boxes. She told me she fell in love with someone else.” Dean swallows the lump in his throat and finishes softly, “I just want it to stop hurting.”

The man blinks, then nods once. “Castiel,” he says, starting toward the back of the store.

“Huh?”

“Castiel,” he says again, “It’s my name. Come with me.”

Dean follows him to the counter. “Dean, uh, I’m Dean.”

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says gravely. “I’m not sure if I can help you, but I will try.” He glances around the store, as if pondering something, then his shockingly blue eyes snap back to Dean.  “It will take a lot of work on your part,” he says.

Dean nods. “Yeah, I don’t care what I have to do. I just don’t wanna feel like this anymore,” he says, then as an afterthought, “But I don’t have a lot of money to buy crystals and candles and stuff. Do I need a bunch of that?”

Castiel doesn’t answer right away, fidgeting with something behind the counter. He pulls out a small book and opens it. It looks like a planner of some kind, with the days marked off in rows. Beside each date there is a small circle and a series of squiggles. “You won’t need anything like that until the end,” he says, running his finger across the rows in the book. “There! There is a full moon on Saturday, five weeks from now. Plenty of time.”

“Plenty of time for what?” Dean asks.

“For you to complete the ritual,” Castiel answer, humming to himself. He runs one hand through his hair as he thinks, tugging on the strands. Well, at least now Dean knows how his hair ends up like that.

“The ritual?” Dean asks with a very manly squeak.

“This kind of serious magic requires the supplicant to be sure of his or her path,” Castiel explains. “Think of it as a quest, if you will.”

“How do you know what the quest is? Is there a book or something that tells you what to do?”

Castiel blinks at him owlishly before running a hand across his stubble. “Ah, yes, a book,” he murmurs, reaching under the counter, “The ritual is in a book. Yes, here it is.”

Dean waits while Castiel flips through the book. He’s holding it up in front of his face so Dean can’t see what’s written in it. Must be powerful stuff if he doesn’t want anyone to see it, Dean thinks. “Yes, yes, here we go,” Castiel says suddenly, snapping the book shut and placing it back under the counter. “Five weeks for five tasks. You must collect five ingredients and bring them to me on Saturday each week. When you bring me the first, I will tell you the next. Each time you will have one week to bring me the next item.”

“Five weeks?” Dean asks unhappily. He was hoping he would be feeling better sooner than that.

“Five weeks,” Castiel repeats. “Magic this strong takes time, especially if it’s worth doing. You want to heal, right?” He’s studying Dean again, and Dean refuses to look away from his stare.

“Sure, yeah, of course I do,” Dean agrees. “I’ve been living like this for almost four months. What’s five more weeks? Hit me with it. What’s the first thing?”

Castiel studies him for a moment more before he answers. “You must bring me petals from the wedding bouquet of a couple who are deeply in love.”

Dean is silent for a moment. “Where the hell am I supposed to get that? Are all the items some kind of Golem riddle?”

“Surely you must know a married couple who are deeply in love, one that would allow you to harvest some petals from their wedding bouquet.”

“Do people even keep those things?”

Castiel smiles. “Yes, I assure you, they do. Especially if they are happy and want a memory of their special day. Some couples may even have the bouquet displayed in their home.”

Agreeing to meet back in the little store in five days, Dean walks back to his car. It looks like Sam and Jess are going to get the dinner guest they’ve been wanting after all. 


	3. Chapter 3

It’s barely dusk when Dean pulls up in front of Sam and Jess’ cute little house. He rests his forehead against the cool leather of the steering wheel, seriously thinking about running away back to his apartment. Pressing one hand to his stomach, he wills the tight knot there to unravel.

The porch light comes on and the front door opens long enough for Sam to step out. His hair is longer than the last time Dean saw him, brushed back behind his ears, and it makes Dean sadder for some reason.  Dean always assumed Sam grew his hair long to piss off their ex-miltary father, but he's made no move to cut it since the man’s death seventeen years ago.

With no reason to put it off any longer, Dean grips the keys tight enough that they dig into the palm of his hand and climbs out of the car. As he starts up the walk toward to the house, movement in the front window draws his attention. A chubby face with bright bouncing curls presses against the glass, drawing out Dean’s first genuine smile of the day.

“It’s good to see you,” Sam says, throwing an arm around Dean’s shoulders. “Jess made lasagna.”

Dean allows himself to be led into the house, scooping up the baby on his way through the living room. He follows Sam into the kitchen, balancing the squirming toddler in one arm as he starts to dig through the fridge.

“We don’t have any beer, Dean,” Jess says from behind him, her voice husky with emotion. He straightens and barely turns toward the pretty blonde woman before she is throwing her arms around him. One arm around her daughter, she presses her face into Dean’s neck, just holding him. A part of him wants to step away, but an even bigger part just wants to bury himself in the warmth of Jess’ arms. Her hair smells like coconut, the strands tickling his nose.

“Missed you,” he murmurs, not really trusting himself to say more. His complaint about the lack of beer in the fridge is forgotten in the comfort of the embrace.

She nods slightly, tilting her head to press a kiss to his cheek. “You need a shave, Winchester,” she grumbles, snagging Sarah out of his arms.

Dean chuckles, releasing them both. Leave it to Jess to know exactly what to say. She always knows how to show she cares without it becoming a chick-flick moment that drags on too long. “I’m trying out a new look,” he retorts, taking the bottle of water Sam offers him instead of the beer he’d prefer. He strokes his fingers through his beard thoughtfully.

“Yeah, sure, it’s certainly that,” Jess chuckles. She shifts the baby onto her hip, expertly balancing the child while tossing a handful of grated cheese into a salad.  “The lasagna has twenty more minutes. Why don’t you two go pick out a movie?”

Dean knows a set-up when he sees one. “Picking out a movie” is just a rouse to get Sam and Dean into the other room so they can “talk.” Dean sighs and follows his brother into the living room. To his surprise, Sam goes right to the shelf of DVDs on the entertainment center and begins flipping through them. Fifteen minutes later and a near fist-fight over the relative merits of _Stargate SG-1_ and _Atlantis_ , they settle on the _Empire Strikes Back._

By the time Jess calls them into the kitchen to help carry the food out, Sam still hasn’t attempted to talk about the last several months. Dean is on edge, waiting for what he assumes are the inevitable comments, but they never come. Instead, he finds himself balancing a stack of plates and utensils in one hand and a bowl of salad in the other, while Sam and Jess bring out the pan of lasagna and a freshly sliced loaf of crusty bread.

After arranging the food on the low table in front of the couch, Sarah tucks in between Sam and Dean on the couch and they serve themselves as the movie starts to play. The familiar dialog provides a backdrop for the conversation. Despite Jess’ complaints, it doesn’t take long for Dean to draw her into telling funny stories about her days at the hospital.

Once they are done eating and the dishes are stacked on the counter in the kitchen, they settle back on the couch for the rest of the movie. By now Dean has forgotten he’s supposed to be anxious and uncomfortable. Instead he finds himself more relaxed than he’s been in weeks. When Sarah’s eyes begin to droop, he makes room for her to crawl onto his lap. She curls up against his chest, one plump hand gripping the front of his shirt. Dean rests his hand lightly on the back of her head, fingers tangled in the soft curls. It isn’t long until her breathing evens out and she starts to drool, a wet spot forming on his t-shirt.

“I can take her,” Jess offers with a small laugh, reaching out for her daughter.

“Nah, I got it,” Dean responds, “I’ll just put her in her crib. I gotta take a leak anyway.”

“Real classy, Winchester.”

Dean shoots her a grin as he leverages himself up with the sleeping toddler and heads up the stairs to her room. Before laying her in the crib, Dean presses a kiss to her temple and breathes in the fresh powdery smell of baby as if he’s trying to memorize the scent to take back with him to his lonely apartment. Why was he avoiding Sam and Jess again?

Between the nursery and the bathroom, Dean pauses in the hallway where Jess’ bouquet is displayed next to their unity candle and a portrait from the wedding. It was the happiness radiating from the couple in the photograph that made him start thinking about asking Lisa to marry him. He wanted that, coveted the bond he saw between them. Unlike Sam, Dean had memories of their parents before the fire. He remembers the way John and Mary looked at each other, and though he would never admit it out loud, he desperately wants someone to look at him like that. He really thought Lisa would be the one who would give that to him.

Dean considers just plucking a few petals from the back of the bouquet, but it seems wrong somehow to defile the bouquet without Sam and Jess’ permission. Would they give him the petals if he asked? How would he explain? _Oh, a witch is going to help me cast a spell to fix my heart and I need your bouquet to do it?_ That would go over really well.

Throughout the rest of the movie Dean tries to think of a way to bring up the bouquet to Sam and Jess. There doesn’t seem to be a way to nonchalantly work it into the conversation, and Dean is getting a little worried he’s going to have to just steal the petals. He doesn’t really want to do that, but it’s getting late and he’s running out of options.

The movie credits roll and Sam reaches up to shut off the TV. There’s a pause before Sam says awkwardly, “So, do you have any plans for the rest of the week?”

Dean knows his brother is only trying to help, but he cringes at the unspoken implication. _Are you just going to mope all week?_ Dean stretches, then glances at Jess before answering. She’s really the one he needs to get past. Even if Sam detects a lie in what he’s about to say, only Jess would call him on it.

“Yeah, well, sort of. I got roped into doing this scavenger hunt thing for Charlie’s guild.” The spunky little red-haired spitfire who calls herself Dean’s best friend is known for the live-action role playing games she drags Dean to. In reality, he hasn’t spoken to Charlie in almost two weeks, but Sam doesn’t need to know that.

Sam’s eyes widen slightly in surprise, but he quickly recovers. “That’s good, cool, I mean. You should get out more.”

Dean bristles with Sam’s brotherly concern, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns to Jess and puts on his best puppy-dog face. “I kinda have a favor to ask, actually. There’s a bunch of stupid things we have to get, and the one she gave me is petals from a wedding bouquet,” he says sheepishly, “Don’t suppose you still have yours?”

Jess’ eyes narrow and for a moment Dean is afraid she’s going to call bullshit. After several moments of his heartbeat thudding in his ears, she smiles and Dean struggles not to let out the breath he shouldn’t have been holding. “I’ve got it upstairs, but how much do you need? I’d really rather not rip my bouquet apart for some stupid game.”

“Nah, just two or three should be enough,” he says nonchalantly, “Don’t do it if it’s gonna ruin it.”

“Let me go get it.” She unfolds her long legs from the armchair and takes the steps two at a time.

While she’s gone, Sam makes another stab at drawing Dean out. “We’re having dinner at Bobby’s next week. Ellen’s gonna cook for us. You should come.”

“He told me you were talkin’ about me.” Dean tries to keep the frustration out of his voice.

Sam blanches slightly, then shrugs. “We worry, Dean. I’m not going to apologize for that.”

Dean is saved from starting another argument by Jess dropping back into her chair, the pale purple and blue bouquet clutched in her hands. “It seems like the dahlia in the back would be the easiest to take petals from. You won’t even be able to tell.” She plucks three dried petals from a large lavender bloom at the back of the mass of flowers and drops them into Dean’s hand. They weigh almost nothing, but Dean feels the burden of them.

“How will they know they’re actually from a bouquet? Couldn’t you just pick some flowers and lie?” Sam challenges.

“Jesus, Sam, who cheats at a stupid game?” Dean retorts, but relents at Sam’s bitchface. “Fine, fine, let me take picture so you can see they came from the bouquet.”

Using his cell phone, he frames a shot showing both the petals in his hand and the bouquet clearly containing the same kind of flower. “Happy?”

Sam grins while Jess shakes her head fondly. Dean is amazed by how easy it was. This scavenger hunt rouse is the best one he could have come up with. Now, if he needs Sam or Jess’ help with any of the other items, he can just blame it on the hunt. Perfect.

Jess shifts in the chair, standing up with the bouquet clasped to her chest as if she’s walking down the aisle again. “As nice as it was to see you, Dean, I do have an early shift at the hospital tomorrow,” she says, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

Sam and Dean agree they both have work in the morning and hugs are exchanged. Dean even promises to try to make it to Bobby’s house for dinner. Walking to the car with the petals carefully held in an envelope Jess scavenged from a drawer in the kitchen, Dean feels hopeful for the first time in months. One down, four to go. 

* * *

* * *

By Saturday, Dean is itching to get to  _Witch Way_ with his prize. He even limits himself to three beers the night before so he can get to the store when it opens without a hangover. Through the front window, he can see Castiel moving around inside, but he hasn’t flipped the sign or unlocked the door yet.

Impatient, Dean walks up to the door to knock. It’s five after already and Dean is eager to find out the next task. As he raises his fist to tap on the door, Castiel appears behind the glass, metal grinding against metal as he pulls back the deadbolt. He tugs the door open, sending the wind chimes dancing. If he’s surprised to see Dean, he doesn’t show it.

“Come in,” he calls out, turning to disappear back into the store. “I wasn’t expecting you this early. Eily was holding me hostage with her capricious whims.”

Taken aback by the odd statement, Dean trails after him. “Uh, Eily your girlfriend?” he manages, stopping in front of the counter.

Castiel gives him a long, appraising look before shaking his head with a small grunt. “Eileithyia is my cat,” he offers. He turns to head into the small room behind the counter. There is the sound of water running, then a clicking noise, before the strange man reappears. “She was on the fire escape and wouldn’t come in until I opened a can of tuna. As a result, I didn’t get my coffee and was late opening the store for you.”

His cat? Dean sighs. He’s beginning to be a little less calm about trusting this guy. “I, ah, got what you said. The petals, I mean.”

Castiel waves him away. “Good, good, just put them there on the counter. Do you want some coffee?”

Dean is about to refuse when the aroma hits him, making his mouth water. Coffee is a thing he forgot about in his rush to get out of the apartment this morning. He had a vague plan to stop at _Gabriel’s_ for a cup after finishing with Castiel, but if there is coffee to be had before then, he’s not turning it down. Giving his assent, Dean glances around and notices a tall stool to the side of the counter. Without asking for permission, he sinks down, running one hand around to squeeze the back of his neck.

“You do that a lot.”

Dean jumps at Castiel’s observation, the man appearing beside him like an apparition. “Jeez, man, give a guy some warning. You about gave me a heart attack. What now?”

Castiel watches him in the odd, penetrating way he has. “You squeeze the back of your neck a lot. Do you have pain there?”

Dean grimaces. It seems like he always has a low level headache these days. “I guess, yeah. My head hurts all the time,” he admits, then adds with a self-deprecating laugh, “though I figured it was just the whiskey.” He tosses a grin toward the man pouring two cups of coffee into ceramic mugs.

Castiel doesn’t smile. Instead, he reaches into the drawer under the counter and pulls out a small paper bag. He hands it to Dean, and then holds up the cream and sugar. Dean shakes his head, he prefers his coffee black and strong, before opening the bag. Inside there are a dozen tea bags without any identifying tags.

Castiel sets the mugs down on the counter. “Drink a cup in the morning and in the evening before bed. It will help with the headaches.” Then, with the slightest glint in his piercing eyes, “Laying off the whiskey will probably also help.”

Dean flushes. When Sam comments on his drinking, it makes Dean want to punch him, but he doesn’t have the same reaction to the censure from Castiel. “Okay, thanks, man. How much do I owe you? It’s not, like, freaky stuff, is it?”

Castiel does smile now, the slightest quirk of his lips. “It’s a gift, no cost. I make them myself. And no, there’s no freaky stuff, just a variety of herbs combined with intention.”

Intention? What the hell does that mean? All this witch stuff is confusing. “Sorry, ah, and thanks,” Dean mutters, suddenly aware he probably insulted the guy again. “Still gettin’ used to all this stuff.” He sips his coffee, good and strong with no bitterness, but a slight nutty flavor.

“I understand, Dean, but there’s nothing to be afraid of here. Witchcraft is not any different from prayer as understood in any other religion, except we believe the power to grant the prayer comes from within rather than from an external, unpredictable deity.”

“Huh, well, I don’t have a great track record with any other religion either. I’m not really the praying type.” He glances around the store, then at the plain white envelope lying on the counter between them.

Castiel’s smile reaches his eyes this time. “You might not think so, but just the fact that you came back shows you want to believe in something more.” He pulls a small, intricately carved box out from under the counter and starts to reach for the envelope. A swooshing sound from the front of the store interrupts him just before the wind chimes start to sing.

A teenage boy enters the store, heading toward the bookshelves. “I’ve got it back here, Devon,” Castiel calls out. “It came in yesterday so I put it aside for you.”

The boy, who Dean figures can’t be more than seventeen, acknowledges the words with a grin and grabs another book from the shelf. As he approaches the counter, he also picks up two crystals from a display next to Dean. “Thanks, Castiel. Can you throw in two yellow candles and three pink ones? I’m starting a new work tomorrow night and I don’t want to run out before the new moon.” He places the book and the crystals on the counter.

“No problem,” Castiel says, adding the items to his order. “Tell your mom we have the hickory root back in stock, unless you want to pick some up for her.”

The boy shakes his head. “She’ll probably get it when she comes in for the new moon esbat.”

“Are you coming? Esther will be doing rune readings,” Castiel responds, putting all of the items in a paper bag and handing it to the boy with a receipt.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to. I’ve got midterms and my study group usually meets until 9.”

Dean listens as they continue to chatter, understanding barely half of what they’re talking about. So not only can a guy be a witch, but apparently so can a teenager. Huh. Dean stays where he is while Castiel walks the boy to the front of the store, still chatting.

When he comes back to the counter, he pauses at Dean’s expression. “What?” he asks with a small smile. “Male witches sometimes start as boy witches, Dean.”

“It’s not that,” Dean responds sheepishly. “Well, I mean, I guess it is sort of that, but just,”

“Just what? His mother is part of our coven, he was raised in the Craft.” Castiel’s voice is starting to take on the defensive, pissed off quality from the first time they met.

Dean rushes to mollify him. “That’s just it, you guys throw around all these words and I don’t have any idea what you’re talkin’ about. He’s a kid and he knows.”

Castiel’s expression softens. “He’s been practicing since he could walk, Dean. Of course he knows more than you do, since you only realized this exists outside of movies and books a week ago.” He settles back onto the stool behind the counter and regards Dean steadily. “If I ever say anything you don’t understand, just tell me. We don’t get many tourists in this part of town, so I’m used to the people who come in being practitioners.”

Dean sighs, swallowing the last of his coffee along with his pride. “Okay, yeah, I get it. I’m just kind of out of it, I guess. Haven’t really been at the top of my game lately.”

Castiel opens the small box on the counter and picks up the envelope. “Let’s get you moving forward then,” he says sympathetically.  He pulls out the pale purple petals and places them gently in the box. “Dahlia. Good choice,” he remarks, squinting into the box.

“Why? I mean, that’s just what was in Jess’ bouquet that wouldn’t rip it up too bad.”

“Dahlias represent commitment and inner strength, both attributes that will serve you well,” Castiel explains, closing the box and placing it back under the counter. “Who is Jess?”

“Oh, uh, my sister-in-law. I had dinner with her and my brother, Sam, the other night.”

Castiel considers this for a moment. “That must have been nice,” he says with a small smile.

“Yeah man, it kinda was. Haven’t seen them, or my niece, she’s two, in a couple of months,” Dean admits. He pauses, then adds, “Well, since the breakup I guess. But it was nice hanging out with them.”

“You’ve been avoiding them?” Castiel asks perceptively. 

Dean flushes slightly, dipping his head to hide his embarrassment. “Yeah, I guess I was. You know, I was so scared of what they would say or what I would say back when they wanted to talk about Lisa. It just seemed easier to stay away. But it was actually really good. A couple of awkward spots, but I had a good time.”

“That’s good, Dean,” Castiel murmurs quietly, his gaze lingering long enough to catch Dean’s eye when he looks back up. “It’s good to have people around you.”

Finding himself unable to look away, he stays steady under Castiel’s scrutiny until the man finally looks down at his mug. “I’m startin’ to see that,” Dean confesses softly. Castiel looks back up, and Dean holds the eye contact for even longer this time. Something about Castiel makes Dean want to talk about his feelings, and that is something Dean Winchester definitely doesn’t do. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, he forces himself to look away.

Castiel starts to respond, but Dean cuts him off. “So, the next trial?”

Castiel huffs a soft laugh. “Trial, Dean? Gathering some flowers is hardly the twelve labors of Hercules.”

“Sorta seems like it,” Dean retorts with a grin, “So lay it on me, what’s next? I’m not gonna have to wrestle a three-headed dog, am I?”

Castiel bites back a chuckle. “I believe Cerberus is safe from you, Dean. Nothing quite so dramatic. The next ingredient is dust collected from a well-loved book of poems.”

Dean doesn’t respond for a moment, turning the words over in his mind. “That makes no sense, man. If the book is loved, why would it have dust on it? Seems like that’s a thing someone would read a lot.”

“I can’t explain,” Castiel responds with a shrug. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”

Now that he has the next task, Dean expects to feel anxious to be on his way, but there is something about the little store and it’s odd proprietor that makes him want to stay. At Castiel’s insistence, he nurses another cup of coffee until he can’t figure out any other reason to linger. Clutching the little bag of tea, Dean leaves the store, promising Castiel he will be back at opening next Saturday. As he’s climbing into the Impala, his stomach lets out a loud growl. Glancing at the time on his phone, he’s so surprised to see he’s spent over three hours hanging out in _Witch Way_ that he doesn’t realize that this is the first time in months he’s felt hungry in the middle of the day.


	4. Chapter 4

Finding a dusty old book of poems shouldn’t be hard, Dean tells himself as he wheels the Impala into a space in front of the Lawrence Public Library. Libraries are full of dusty old books. Halfway up the front walk, he pats the small zip-loc bag in his pocket.

He pushes through the front door, glancing around self-consciously. It’s not that Dean is unfamiliar with libraries in general, but it’s been years since he’s had the time to spend reading and his mission today has him off-balance. It’s too bad his collection of Vonnegut doesn’t count as poetry, because they’ve been gathering quite a bit of dust.

He looks around surreptitiously, hoping to see some kind of directory so he doesn’t have to ask the elderly black woman behind the desk for help. When his eyes land on her, she gives him a wry grin. “If you just tell me what you’re looking for, it will probably go a little quicker. I don’t bite,” she offers.

Dean flushes, approaching the desk cautiously. “Um, poetry?” he says.

“You asking me whether I like poetry, boy? Or is that what you’re looking for?”

Dean cracks a smile then, her brusque manner reminding him of Bobby. “That’s what I’m looking for, ma’am.”

“Third floor, in the back corner by the copy machines,” she responds, then continues with a conspiratorial wink, “Heaven knows why though, it’s not like people are going to be photocopying poetry out of a book when they can just look it up on that internet.”

Dean does let out a soft chuckle then, “That’s a good question, ma’am. Thanks.”

He takes the stairs instead of the elevator, even though the doors are just to his right and the stairs are in the opposite corner. He’s never liked small enclosed spaces and elevators give him the heebie-jeebies. He finds the poetry section easily, but, running his fingertips down the spines looking for a well-worn one, he realizes there is no dust at all on any of them. Does someone dust them? Probably the woman at the desk, Dean thinks with a sigh.

Instead of just leaving, he pulls a book from the shelf randomly. He’s never really been one for poetry, but he’s got forty-five minutes to kill before he heads home to get cleaned up. It wasn’t Sam’s nagging that finally persuaded him to show up at Bobby’s for dinner, it was the voicemail from Ellen herself, calling him several choice names and threatening to tan his hide if he didn’t make time for them. Even as a grown man, he knows not to mess with Ellen when she’s riled.

Sinking into a chair at the end of the aisle, he flips the book open at random. The first couple of poems are stilted with unfamiliar words and phrasing, too many _thees_ and _thous_ for Dean’s taste.  Flipping a few more pages, he finds a poem called _The Kraken_ that draws his attention. Despite the _–eths_ and _haths_ , Dean finds he enjoys it, as well as the next few. Before he realizes it, more than a half hour has passed. He flips one more page and the words at the top catch his eye. Pulling a few coins out of his pocket, he photocopies the page before setting the book on the cart at the end of the aisle to be re-shelved. 

The sassy woman at the desk is helping another patron when Dean walks up, so he snags a pen out of the cup on the counter and writes “Thanks” at the top of the page. He positions the copy of Maya Angelou’s _Phenomenal Woman_ on the desk where she’s sure to see it before walking back out the car. He may not have gotten what he needed, but he can’t stop the smile tugging at his lips as he slides behind the wheel.

Even with shaving and showering, Dean still manages to make it to Bobby and Ellen’s before Sam and Jess. He pauses on the porch, contemplating knocking instead of just walking in like he usually would. It’s been over three months since he’s seen Ellen and he’s expecting a tongue-lashing of epic proportion.

He’s raising his hand when the door is yanked open. “I sincerely hope you’re not actually knocking on that door, Dean Winchester,” the petite, middle-aged brunette in front of him growls.

Dean can’t bring himself to meet her gaze, so he looks down at his feet, shifting his weight back and forth sheepishly. He opens his mouth to defend himself, apologize, anything, when he’s abruptly enveloped in a hug that almost knocks him backwards down the steps. “You stupid, bullheaded, boy,” Ellen mutters against his shoulder, one hand sliding up to cup the back of his head. 

And just like that, Dean is ten-years old again, resting in the embrace of the woman who substituted for, but could never replace, his mother. A hundred cuts, bruised egos and broken hearts have been soothed by this woman. Dean could swear she still uses the same shampoo she did twenty-years ago, because she smells just the same. She smells like coming home. With no warning, he’s crying, silent tears that wet the hair just behind her ear. “If she can’t see what a wonderful man you are, she doesn’t deserve you,” she murmurs softly. She squeezes tighter, for just a moment, before releasing him.

As Dean brushes away the tears, Ellen doesn’t comment. She just turns and heads back into the house. Dean is grateful for the perceptiveness that led her to ambush him on the porch instead of in the house in front of Bobby. Not that the older man would have said a word about Dean’s moment of weakness, but it would have been awkward for both of them.

Instead, Dean is composed and chuckling over Ellen’s teasing when they enter the kitchen.  Bobby is sitting at the table, an open beer in front of him and another at the seat across from him. Dean nods his head in greeting, grabbing the beer from the table. “Good to see ya, boy,” Bobby says, effectively closing the door on the last three months. 

Dean helps Ellen with dinner, chopping, peeling, and mixing while she entertains him with anecdotes about the new waiter at the bar she’s run for as long as Dean has known her.  Dean is on his second beer, head thrown back in laughter at the thought of a college kid trying to tell Ellen how to run her business, when Sam and Jess arrive. Sam claps him on the back after Jess hugs him and, to Dean’s relief, neither mentions the beer.

Dinner is, as usual, delicious. The conversation flows easily and no one mentions Lisa or that they haven’t seen Dean in three months. Dean laughs along, his mouth full of burgers and Ellen’s special seasoned fries. Every now and then, his heart contracts when someone mentions an incident he somehow missed in the last several years. Has he been so completely disconnected from his family? Dean feels guilty over how little time he spent with Sam and Jess or Bobby and Ellen while he was with Lisa. What few times he did see them, it was always by himself rather than as a couple.

When Ellen pulls an apple pie out of the oven, Dean jumps up to wrap his arms around her, swinging her into the air with a sloppy kiss on the cheek. She puts the pie on the counter and swats him with the oven mitt. “Get off me, you buffoon!”

“I should have wooed you away when I had the chance, Ellen, before this old coot snapped you up. You could be making apple pies for me every day,” he teases, passing the first plate she hands him to Bobby, then taking his own eagerly to the table. Sam and Jess laugh, and Ellen swats him again. Ellen and Bobby danced around each other for as long as Dean can remember, only finally giving into their mutual affections six years ago. Although they still keep separate houses, it’s clear to everyone who knows them that they’re together.

“You are the worst kind of flirt,” she chastises, eyes sparkling with humor.

The kitchen is silent as they each work on devouring the pie. Once the dishwasher is loaded, they move to the living room. Ellen puts a record on the old turn-table in the corner, soft country music filling the room.

“So, Dean,” Sam starts, clearing his throat, “how’s that scavenger hunt going?” There’s a hint of something in his voice Dean isn’t sure how to interpret.

“Good. We, ah, got the points for the flowers, thanks to your beautiful wife,” Dean answers, aiming a flirty grin toward Jess.

“Scavenger hunt?” Ellen asks, wedging herself into the recliner next to Bobby despite his half-hearted protests.

“Yeah, I’m doin’ this hunt thing with Charlie, like we have to find all these different things that fit the clues.”

“What are you lookin’ for now?”

Dean is a little nervous about the way Sam is watching him, so he focuses on Ellen as he explains. “This one’s kind of weird. Dust from a book of well-loved poetry. Went to the library but some freak must dust the books.”

Bobby makes a noise, causing them all to look at him. “That’s an easy one, I got plenty of dust.”

“It’s got to be from a book of poetry, Bobby,” Dean reminds him.

Bobby rolls his eyes and starts to stand. “Let me up, woman,” he mutters, pushing Ellen away. He ambles toward the back of the house. The others exchange looks and follow him.

They find him in a room that was clearly set up as a library at one point. Dean vaguely remembers playing with matchbox cars in the hallway, but the door was always closed and locked. The older man is rifling through the books on the shelves behind the desk, muttering to himself. Everything in the room is covered in dust and the air is stagnant with disuse.

“Here, dust an’ poems,” he mutters, stepping away to indicate the book he’s pulled partway from the shelf.

Dean steps forward and pulls it the rest of the way out, careful not to dislodge the thick layer of dust coating the top of the pages.  _Collected Works_ is imprinted in gold leaf on the front of the leather binding. “Why do you have a book of love poems?” Dean asks. He uses his finger to brush some of the dust into the little baggie from his pocket before flipping through it.

“It was Karen’s. She used to read that damn book every night, make me listen to ‘em.”

“Karen?” Sam asks, exchanging a look with Dean.

“My wife.”

Three sets of eyes turn to Bobby, wide with disbelief. Ellen is smiling sadly, her hand in Bobby’s, but she doesn’t look surprised. “Your wife?” Dean gasps. “Since when have you had a wife?”

“You think this woman here is the first to ever make time with me, boy?” he responds gruffly. “I ain’t no leper."

“Well, shit,” Dean stutters to a stop as Sam interrupts.

“How can we have grown up in this house and not known you had a wife?”

“She died long ‘fore you were even a twinkle in your daddy’s eye. We were only married a couple years when the cancer took her.”

Ellen slides one arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder. “She was lovely. Just a ray of sunshine around her all the time,” Ellen says, her smile wistful. “We were friends in school, even though she was a couple of years older than me.” She motions toward a portrait on the shelf showing a pretty blonde in her late teens. It’s covered in the same thick dust as everything else in the room. “She was twenty-three when she died.”

“Wow,” Dean says, at a loss. It’s almost like he doesn’t know Bobby at all. Imagining a much younger Bobby falling in love, getting married and then losing her all before he was even Sam’s age kind of puts his situation in perspective.

Dean tucks the baggie into the pocket of his jeans and they follow Bobby and Ellen back out to the living room. Despite his protests, they cajole Bobby into telling them about Karen, including how they met, how he proposed, and the wedding. Ellen fills in the details when Bobby gets obstinate, even going so far as to pull a photo album out of the old sideboard sitting under the window. They take turns flipping through the album, and Bobby grumbles when Dean remarks that Bobby is wearing the same hat from thirty years ago, though it is in much better condition in the photos.

It’s past ten when they finally wind down, Bobby gruffly reminding them they all have work in the morning. “Don’t know ‘bout you idjits, but I gotta get my beauty rest,” he mutters as he and Ellen walk them to the door.

Ellen slides her arms around Dean’s waist, resting her head on his chest. “Don’t be a stranger, Dean,” she mumbles.

“I won’t, Ellen,” he whispers, pressing a kiss into her hair. “Thank you.” He squeezes her a little tighter before letting go.

Dean is fitting the key into the ignition of the Impala when the passenger door opens and Sam slides into the seat. He looks in the rearview mirror and sees Jess sitting calmly in the passenger seat of their car behind him.

“Uh, what the hell ya doin’, Sammy?”

Sam doesn’t respond for a moment. He just taps his fingers on the dash, body turned toward Dean in the seat. “I had an interesting week,” he says finally, not breaking eye contact. “I grabbed lunch for me and Jess at the little coffee shop by the hospital. The one next door to the comic book shop.” He pauses, and Dean closes his eyes, sure he knows what is coming next. “I ran into Charlie.”

“Fuck,” Dean exhales, hand coming up to squeeze the back of his neck. He cracks one eye to look at Sam, who is watching him thoughtfully.

“What the hell is going on, Dean? She didn’t know anything about any scavenger hunt. In fact, she said she hasn’t talked to you in weeks.”

“Fuck,” Dean repeats with more energy. “I know this looks crazy, but I can explain.”

Sam nods. “That would be good.”

Just like that, the damn inside of Dean breaks. He tells Sam about coming home to find his things in entryway, the bleakness of the past few months, and how much he’s been hurting. He doesn’t cry, thankfully, and Sam listens without interrupting, letting Dean unload it all without comment. Sam doesn’t flinch until Dean tells him about _Witch Way_ , Castiel, and the ritual. He looks at Sam sheepishly. “So, I gotta get all this stuff so I can finish the ritual. I can’t keep feelin’ like this, Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam starts, in the tone of voice he always uses when he knows Dean isn’t going to like what he’s about to say. Dean fights the urge to stop him before he continues. “I get it, it’s been rough, and I get the desperation, but are you sure this isn’t some kind of scam? I mean, people prey on individuals who are in pain, use it as a way to bilk them out of thousands of dollars.”

“Cas ain’t like that, man. He’s a good guy. He hasn’t asked for any money, told me he was gonna help me and it wouldn’t cost me anything,” Dean says, rushing to the defense of the man he’s started to think of as a friend.

“Maybe not yet, but he could be waiting until he has you hooked.”

“I’m telling you, Sammy. He’s not going to. He even gave me some free tea because I’ve been havin’ headaches. I’ve been drinking it every day and it hasn’t hurt all week. I’ve actually been sleepin’ and I’ve been getting hungry again for the first time in months.” He trails off, imploring Sam to believe him. “He’s helping me.”

“Okay, okay,” Sam relents, “I just worry, you know. Please be careful.”

Dean lets out a sigh. “I will. I promise. I’ll talk to you if he asks for any money or anything shady, make sure I’m thinkin’ straight.”

“Okay, that’s going to have to be enough.”

“I really think it’s helping already, man. I feel better, and it got me to start hangin’ out with your ugly mug again,” Dean teases.

Sam grins. “Yeah, well, I guess I should thank him for that at least. If you need help with any of the other things, let me know. You don’t have to sneak around to get them.”

“I will,” Dean promises. Sam gets out of the car, but Dean stops him before he closes the door, “And, uh, thanks, Sam.”

Sam nods, his eyes warm. “No problem, Dean. Have a good night.”

* * *

* * *

A fine drizzle has started by the time Dean finds a parking space and walks into  _Witch Way_ . The store has already been open for forty-five minutes and Dean is a little irritated he didn’t make it there as early as he wanted. He blames it on Charlie, who waited until Friday night to confront him about her run-in with Sam. At twenty after seven, she showed up at his door with pizza and used it to wheedle the entire story out of him. By the time she left just after midnight, Dean was wondering how he survived without her and she had secured a promise to let her help with the rest of the items.

There are several customers in the small storefront, including some teenagers in the books and an elderly woman sorting through the tarot cards. Cas is engaged in what looks like a heated conversation with a thin, pale woman near the back counter, so Dean lingers near the crystal display doing his best not to look like he’s eavesdropping.

“You said two weeks,” she snaps. “It’s been two weeks.”

Cas sounds tired as he responds calmly, “I realize that, Lilith, but two weeks was an estimate. I have no way of knowing how long it will take the distributor.”

“I drove clear across the city!” she cuts him off angrily.

Dean watches as Cas takes a calming breath before trying again. His already gravelly voice is low and mollifying, “Of course, I didn’t expect you to make a special trip. That’s why I said I would call you when it came in.”

“Well, when I didn’t hear from you within the two weeks, I figured I better just stop in,” she bites out.

Cas takes another deep breath and tries again. “I can call the company and see if they have an estimate for the delivery date,” he offers.

“Why don’t you do that?” Her tone is sharp enough to cut glass and Dean cringes as Cas slips behind the curtain into the back room.

Dean takes a step closer to the edge of the shelf, catching the woman’s eye. She appears to be only a few years older than him, though her severe haircut first made him think that she was older. He offers her a flirtatious grin before looking back at the multi-colored stone carvings on display. When he looks up again, she’s watching him with a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Frustratin’, huh? To drive clear over here?” he says, offering her his hand, “I’m Dean, by the way. Didn’t mean to overhear your conversation.” He holds her grip a beat longer than he should, letting the tips of his fingers brush against her palm as he releases her.

A slight flush rises on her cheeks. “Oh, no, no, it’s fine. I’m just a little irritated.”

Dean takes another step toward the counter so he can brace one arm against it and leans in toward her. “It’s the weather,” Dean offers. “Gettin’ wet is bound to put anyone in a bad mood.”

“Of course, yes. This weather is very depressing.” Dean doesn’t miss the way her gaze keeps flicking between his eyes and his lips, so he wets his lips with the just the tip of his tongue, slow enough to draw her attention, but not so slow as to be obvious. Her eyes widen just a tick and Dean has to bite back a grin.

“It would get to me, too. That’s the great thing about doin’ the special orders. They let you know when it’s in, so you don’t have to get wet.” Now that he has her hooked, Dean lets his eyes drop to her lips for a moment. “But when you go out, you never know what interesting people you might meet.”

“True,” she stutters, her focus so completely on Dean that she doesn’t realize Cas has returned to the counter and is holding out a paper to her until he clears his throat. She and Dean both immediately take a step backwards and Dean raises his hand to cover his grin.

“Sorry for the wait, Lilith,” Cas says, eyes darting suspiciously from her to Dean and back again. “The distributor feels horrible it has taken so long to ship the book so they are going to ship it directly to you, free of charge.”

“Oh, that’s so nice, Castiel. I do so appreciate the way you take care of things,” she gushes, tucking the paper into her purse. “I’ll be by for the next Sabbat. Do put me down for bringing the flowers. You should come to the next ritual, Dean. Beltane is a fertility rite, you know.” By the time Dean processes her wink, the wind chimes are announcing her departure.

Low, husky laughter pulls his attention back to Cas. The man isn’t even trying to stifle his humor. “It’s a fertility rite, Dean,” he says with his own slow wink.

It’s Dean’s turn to blush. “Was she serious?”

“You were flirting with her,” Cas points out.

“Jesus, Cas, I was just tryin’ to get her off your case!”

Cas laughs again, a rumbling sound that seems to echo in his chest. “Well, you’re very good at it. Maybe it helped that you no longer look like you’ve been living in a cave.”

Dean runs his fingertips along his jaw. “The scruff was gettin’ to me. Plus I had dinner with Ellen, she’s like my surrogate mom, the other night and she woulda’ taken a straight razor to me herself if I showed up with the beard.”

“You look better without it,” he says, “I grew a beard once long enough to braid.”

Dean lets out a belly laugh. “That’s somethin’ I’d like to see, Cas. Pics or it didn’t happen.”

Cas shakes his head morosely. “I was living in a monastery in south Asia. No pictures.” He tilts his head to the side in the little gesture Dean has come to realize means he’s thinking about something. “You keep calling me Cas.”

Dean blushes again. “Yeah, ah, sorry, your name is kind of a mouthful. It just slipped out when I was tellin’ my brother about you and I kind of liked it. I’ll stop if you don’t like it.”

“It’s fine. I like it,” he responds, then with a raised eyebrow, “You told your brother about me?” He sounds surprised.

“Yeah, I told him about the ritual and everything. He was a little freaked out.”

Cas shrugs, a small twitch of his shoulders. “Many people do not understand this path. You were also ‘freaked out’ when you first came in.”

Dean grins at Cas’ use of air quotes. “True, I was. We’re good though; he’s okay with it. And I got this.” He pulls the little baggie of dust out of his pocket.

“Did you have trouble getting it?” Cas pulls out the box and places the bag inside. 

Dean tells Cas about Bobby’s wife. “I never knew. I mean, I grew up in that house and I never knew Bobby was married. She was beautiful. Bobby had to get over losing the love of his life to cancer when he was four years younger than me. Makes this shit with Lisa seem like I’m bein’ childish.”

“Another person’s pain does not negate your own, Dean.”

“Yeah, I get it. Just seems wrong, though.”

Cas starts to argue again, then trails off. “I’m glad you reconnected with your family,” he says instead.

“It’s been good. Even had pizza with my best friend last night. Haven’t talked to her in weeks. I never realized before how much bein’ with Lisa changed me hangin’ out with my family and friends. I just kind of got used to only seeing them every now and then, so when Lisa left, I didn’t know how to get back to them, you know?”

“I do. That often happens in relationships,” Cas offers quietly. Dean can’t help but feel there’s a story there, but he feels awkward asking.

“Sam and Charlie both said they’d help me with the rest of the items. Does it matter? I mean, will it still work if they help me figure out where to get the stuff.”

“As long as you’re the one gathering the ingredient, it won’t matter, Dean. The next item is hair from a dog who is not loved enough.”

“That should be easy enough. There’s plenty of dogs at the pound that aren’t loved enough.”

Cas nods encouragingly. “Maybe your brother or Charlie would go with you.”

“That’s a good idea. Charlie would love to go.”

The teenagers who were browsing the books when he came in finally make their selections and bring them to Cas to check out, interrupting whatever Cas was going to say. Dean lingers while Cas waits on a few more customers, even though he should be going now that he has the next item. Instead, he browses the shelves until the store is empty again and settles down on the stool next to the register. When Cas starts to catalog new merchandise that was delivered last night, Dean offers to pitch in.

“You don’t have to do that, Dean. I’m sure you have things you’d rather do with your Saturday besides hang out here as free labor.”

Dean takes the box from him and deftly slices it open, tossing Cas the box cutter back before beginning to stack the packages of herbs on the counter. “I really don’t.”


	5. Chapter 5

The cold, wet nose presses against Dean’s neck, eliciting a very un-manly giggle. He quickly glances around the room to see if any of the shelter volunteers noticed his slip, but no one is paying him any attention. The dog wriggles onto his lap, a long sloppy tongue leaving a trail of slobber up his cheek.

The little cocker spaniel is the fourth dog Dean has played with under the guise of adopting a pet, even though he got the hair he needed from the first one. The stately Boxer was much less wiggly than the little ball of energy currently nipping at his ear, but he didn’t make Dean’s heart contract any less. The thought of all of these dogs without homes, maybe even being put down before they find one, makes Dean wish his apartment complex allowed dogs.

“She likes you.”

Dean glances up at the pretty redhead who is cleaning the kennel next to where he is sitting cross-legged on the floor. Anna is slender, with large blue eyes that make her look so much like an elf that Dean expects to be able to brush her hair back and find pointed ears. She’s beautiful and willowy, with pale skin and full lips that make Dean want to lick them, just to see if they taste as good as they look.

For the first time since Lisa, Dean feels his libido kick up a notch at the way her shorts pull over her rear as she bends down. Along with his hunger, his sex drive has been almost non-existent for the last few months. Other than a few unsatisfying sessions in the shower, his dick hasn’t been interested in much of anything and it has been worrying him a little. 

Despite his relief that he’s not completely broken, he looks away from the way her tight t-shirt stretches across her breasts as she wipes down the walls of the kennel. Popping a boner with a lapful of squirming puppy would be both awkward and potentially painful.

“She’s a cute little thing,” he responds, careful to keep his attention on the dog. “I just want to take every single one of them home. How does anyone choose?”

She gives a soft chuckle, coming over to kneel beside him and scratch behind the dog’s ears. The dog writhes in pleasure, nearly planting a small foot in Dean’s groin. He quickly moves her out of his lap and blocks her from re-staking her claim.  “It’s about chemistry. Sometimes people play with every dog we have or come back multiple times before they find one that clicks with them. When you meet your dog you’ll know it,” she says with a gentle smile.

He stands then, offering a hand to help the woman up as well. “I’m a little worried that a dog may be too much responsibility. I mean, yeah, I’d love to have one, but I live in an apartment, and I work long shifts sometimes. What if she gets lonely, or she gets fat ‘cause I can’t walk her as much as she needs?”

“That is a concern,” she agrees, “Most dogs need a lot of attention and some breeds don’t do well in apartments at all.” She taps one finger on her chin, then grins. “Have you thought about a cat instead?”

“A cat?” Dean repeats and his knee-jerk reaction is to say no way. He had a girlfriend a few years before Lisa who had a cat. Just walking into her parent’s house was enough to make his eyes start watering.

“Sure. They don’t need as much attention as a dog, but can be just as engaging and entertaining, especially if you start with a kitten.” She grabs his hand and tugs him into the next room, where the walls are lined with kennels containing felines of every size and color. Her warm fingers wrapped around his distracts him long enough that he doesn’t protest. He hasn’t held anyone’s hand in over three months and he didn’t realize how much he missed it until now. Once they’re standing in front of the long rows of cages, she drops his hand and Dean snaps back to the present.

“I don’t know,” he starts to object. “I’m pretty allergic, so I don’t know how it would work out.”

“Over the counter allergy pills work for most people,” she counters, opening a cage and pulling out a little ball of black fluff. She tries to push the kitten into Dean’s arms, but he steps away, arms raised as if she just offered him a bomb.

He starts to back toward the door, avoiding even looking at the kitten lest he be sucked in by the cuteness. He hits the door with his back and is turning to leave when the striking colors of the cat closest to the door catches his eye. The cat is a sleek, short-haired breed mottled with white, black, and orange. The thing that makes Dean stop to take a closer look, though, is the  blotch of black across her face that almost looks like a Batman mask. Once he stops to take a closer look, he realizes the cat is missing one eye.

“That’s Manasa,” Anna says sadly. “She was just brought in last week. The vet thinks she lost her eye in a fight with another cat on the streets. There’s also a big patch of hair on her tail that doesn’t grow because of scar tissue. We think she got it caught in a chain-link fence or something.”

“That sucks,” Dean replies softly. He reaches toward the cage and the one-eyed cat butts the top of her head against the cage, her fur tickling his knuckles.

“It does. Especially since she’s probably going to be euthanized next week.”

“Wait, what? Why? I mean, you said she just came in. Why would they put her to sleep so quick? That’s not even giving her a chance,” Dean protests, suddenly terrified for the cat’s safety.

“We have enough problems placing all of the kittens we have, and she has two strikes against her. Adult cats are much harder to place than kittens and it’s almost impossible to place a cat with a disability.” She says it matter-of-factly, as if holding a life in her hands is something she does every day. Looking up and down the rows of cats, and remembering the dozen or so dogs in the other room, Dean realizes she probably does.

Dean wiggles his fingers through the cage, fingertips brushing the top of the cat’s head. The thought of her being put down makes him sick to his stomach, but he’s not sure he can even adopt a cat on his lease. Pulling his hand away, he stuffs them both in his pockets to keep from reaching for her again.

Anna seems disappointed when Dean leaves the shelter without adopting an animal. She invites him back to play with the dogs and cats another day. “Even if you don’t adopt one, we’re always looking for people to volunteer to just play with the strays, so they’re socialized if they’re adopted,” she tells him. Dean resolutely ignores the way she says _if_ they’re adopted as he walks to the car.

By the time Dean makes it across town, his stomach is growling. Rather than call for take-out, Dean stops at the Hy-Vee for groceries. He never really stocked his new apartment after leaving the one he shared with Lisa. Why does he need fresh food when most days it’s all he can do to force down cold Chinese noodles while finishing a six-pack? Today though, he has the urge to cook for the first time in months. Dean has always enjoyed cooking and he’s pretty proud of the compliments his dishes receive from family and friends. 

He wheels the cart around the store, picking out beef for hamburgers, tomatoes and herbs to make spaghetti sauce, and fresh blueberries for a pie. Ticking through the ingredients for his pie crust in his head, he’s halfway down the next aisle when he realizes he’s in the pet section. Brightly colored felt mice, little balls with bells in them, and packages of treats that promise a party mix inside line the shelves in front of him. He files away the prices for buckets of litter, cans of food, bowls and a litter pan, then forces himself to leave the aisle without purchasing anything.

The trunk loaded with groceries, Dean heads straight home without stopping at the liquor store. There are still two bottles of whiskey in the cupboard and a six-pack of beer in the fridge, leftover from the last time he stopped over a week ago. Instead of thinking about drinking himself into a stupor as he drives, he plans out his meals for the next couple of days to best use up any leftovers. He’d mastered the art of culinary repurposing when he and Sam were kids.

It takes two trips to carry all of the groceries up the stairs to his apartment. He can’t remember the last time he bought so much food that he couldn’t carry it all in one hand and still be able to unlock the door. There’s so much to put away that he starts the water boiling for pasta while he works, already salivating for the shrimp alfredo he plans to make.

Sitting on the old broken down couch after dinner feels weird without a beer in his hand. The coffee table in front of him is clear of debris, although there is a half empty bottle of whiskey on the counter. One shot after dinner was enough to relax him, so he hadn’t bothered to start the six-pack.

Dean flips on the TV and starts to scroll through the Netflix menus, but nothing is holding his attention. When the Roku times out and returns to the main menu, Dean realizes he’s been staring at the far wall of the living room for several minutes. The apartment is certainly not spacious, but Dean wonders if there is room on that wall for one of those multi-tiered climbing trees and a litter box.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Dean pulls his phone from his pocket and composes a text to Pamela, the apartment building manager. It can’t hurt to check on whether he’s even allowed to have a cat, he reasons. Twenty minutes later there’s a response to the affirmative. For a hundred dollar security deposit and ten dollars extra each month on his rent, he’s free and clear to get a cat.

Walking into the shelter after work the next day, Dean is regretting asking Charlie to come along. The backseat and trunk of the Impala are full of supplies, boxes and bags of treats and food and toys and litter and what seems like a million other things Dean didn’t even know a cat needed. She even picked up an extra-large bottle of allergy pills. Dean followed her around Wal-mart in a daze, letting her fill the cart and then providing his debit card at the register.

Anna is thrilled when they walk into the shelter. He called ahead to make sure Manasa was still there and Anna had all the paperwork laid out on the counter. “Couldn’t stay away?”

“I guess not,” Dean returns sheepishly. He’s filling out an application that is so thorough it makes him think he’s adopting a kid instead of a cat. How the hell would he know what kind of pets his neighbors have? He doesn’t even know his neighbors’ names.

Charlie is snuggling Manasa against her chest, sitting on the floor just beneath him. “She’s gorgeous, Dean. Such a pretty girl, aren’t you? Such a fierce Amazon.” Her already bubbly voice is pitched even higher, like she’s talking to a baby, and Dean rolls his eyes.

Anna laughs softly and takes the papers from him, looking them over then signing her name at the bottom. She runs his card for the adoption fee and hands him a packet with all of Manasa’s  tags and veterinary paperwork. “You have everything you need? We have some basic care packages made up.”

“I think I have most of Wal-mart’s pet department in my car. We’re good.” Anna helps them get Manasa into the soft-sided carrier Charlie insisted on, and then they’re on their way back to his apartment.

* * *

* * *

Dean swipes the screen of his phone to the next picture and passes it across the counter to Cas. He should be embarrassed by the number of pictures he has of his cat, but he’s having too much fun sharing silly stories. Manasa settled into life in the apartment pretty easily. Dean tried to keep her out of his bedroom for the first two nights, but gave in after she snuck in while he was showering and hid under the bed. She’s curled up on his pillow or his chest every night since.

“Is that Charlie?” Cas asks, holding the phone up. He’s swiped to the next picture, showing the redhead with the cat snuggled right against her face, making cross-eyes at the camera.

“Yep, she’s a kook, but she’s been my best friend since third grade, so I ignore her weirdness.”

Cas laughs, swiping to the next picture. This one shows Dean with Manasa curled up on his shoulder as he reclines on the couch. She's pressing her nose into his ear and Charlie caught him mid-laugh. “You look happy.”

Dean glances down at the picture. Huh, Cas is right. He does look happy. Happier than he’s been in a long time anyway.

They continue to flip through the pictures, until Cas swipes one too many times. The screen shows Dean with Lisa. Cas realizes right away who the woman in the picture must be and presses the button to turn off the screen, but Dean has already seen it. He takes the phone and turns it back on, studying the picture critically. “She looks happy, right? I mean, I didn’t imagine it?” His voice is strained.

Cas takes the phone and turns the screen off again. “Yes, Dean. She looks happy.”

Dean stares at the phone, screen gone dark, as if it can let him in on the secret of what went wrong. What happened to the smiling, happy couple? Finally, Cas reaches out and touches Dean’s wrist lightly. Dean lets out a broken sigh. “Has a girl ever broke your heart, Cas?” he asks quietly.

Cas is silent for a long while, studying Dean for several moments before looking away. “Not a girl,” he answers so softly Dean isn’t sure he heard him right.

The silence stretches while Dean processes. He’s not a bigot and it certainly doesn’t bother him if Cas is saying what Dean thinks he is. “So, a boy then,” he says, catching Cas’ eye and holding it.

Cas lets out a breath Dean hadn’t been aware he was holding. Had he really been that worried about Dean’s reaction? He nods slightly, just once. “Balthazar. We were together for two years, until one day we just weren’t. We grew apart, he said, but it didn’t feel that way to me.”

 “You ever figure out where things went wrong?”

“Not really, no. I mean, we were both busy, me with work and him with graduate school. I guess we just got to the point where we wanted different things out of life.”

Dean slips the phone back into his pocket, slumping against the counter. “You moved on,” he points out.

“Not right away. It took a long time until I could say I was happy again. This place helped.”

Dean glances up from where his head is laying on his arms on the counter. “This place?”

Cas smiles sadly. “Yes. I guess I agreed to help you because I saw something of myself in you. Meg, the woman who owns this store, helped me in much the same way. She gave me a purpose and a family, and ultimately, inner peace. By the time everything was said and done, I realized I didn’t want to be part of a corporate world anymore, so she offered me a job managing the store. I’ve never looked back.”

“Wait, what? You were a business guy? Like in a suit and tie?” Dean scoffs incredulously.

Cas chuckles, laugh lines crinkling around his eyes. “Oh yes, suit and tie, sensible shoes and cocktail mixers after work on Thursday nights. I was a financial analyst for four years, but I’ve been doing this for almost six. I moved out of my condo and into the apartment upstairs, traded my BMW for a cat, and I’ve never been happier.”

“Holy shit, man. I can’t picture it. I mean, you’re all yoga pants and hemp shirts. I just can’t picture you in that world.”

“I doubt you would even recognize me, if you could see me as I was then. I’m certainly not the same man now. Sometimes I wonder what Balthazar would think of the man I’ve become, but then I remember it doesn’t really matter. This journey stopped being about him a long time ago.”

Dean looks around the store and takes a deep breath, inhaling the jasmine incense Cas lit earlier. “Do you think I’ll ever get there? I mean, I feel like I’m movin’ in a good direction, but it seems like all these little things just throw me right back in it. Do you think I’ll ever just get free of it all? Just be me again?”

“You will,” Cas answers seriously. “One day, you’ll suddenly realize it’s been a day since you thought about her, and then a week, and then a month. You’ll find other things that make you happy, and your life will stop being about what she didn’t want and start being about what you do want.”

Dean thinks it over. “I hope you’re right, man. I just want to get this ritual done so I can move on, cut the ties, and put the whole thing behind me.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes, flute music playing softly in the background. “So what’s the next thing I need?” Dean asks. “Only two left?”

“Yes, just two left,” Cas agrees. “This one might be a little harder. It’s a little more personal.”

“Just hit me with it. Gotta get it over with.”

“Okay. The next item you need to collect is a favorite food that was shared with the loved one.” Cas looks apologetic, like he thinks Dean might balk.

“So, I need a food me and Lisa shared? Like something we liked to eat together?” Cas nods and starts to respond, but Dean cuts him off. “I can do that, man. If it gets me one step closer to havin’ this over with, it’s not a problem.”

“If you’re sure,”

“Yeah, man, I got this,” Dean assures him. He peers into the back room. “What you got goin’ on this afternoon?”

Cas hesitates to let him change the subject so quickly, then gives in. “I need to price the shipment of tools we just got in and make up more teas.”

“I could give you a hand,” Dean offers. “If you want, I mean. Don’t wanna be in the way.”

Cas’ smile is genuine. “Of course, Dean. I’d appreciate the help, if you don’t mind. I could show you how to grind the herbs and pack the tea bags, if you’re interested.”

“Hell yeah. Show me what to do first.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Are you sure this is the way to Windhelm? I think I got turned around in the storm and now there's a fucking frost troll in my way.” Dean throws the video game controller onto the couch next to him. “If that thief didn’t steal all my healing potions, I'd be able to get past this fucker,” he sulks.

Charlie scoops up the controller. “Yes, this is the way to Windhelm, you baby. If you’d bought the fire spell in Markarth like I told you to, you'd be fine.  But no, you're all ‘swing heavy objects, Hulk smash.’ No appreciation for the subtleties of magecraft.”

Dean sputters, almost spilling his beer. “Hulk smash? Really?” he protests.

Charlie shoots him a grin. “I’m not the one walking around with a sword bigger than I am. Overcompensate much?”

Charlie lets out a shriek as Dean tackles her onto the couch, pulling the tiny redhead into a headlock. “I’ll show you my sword, you wench!” he mutters, desperately trying to lick the side of her face as Charlie screams and flails.

“Eww, no thanks, you oaf. Keep your sword sheathed,” she says with a laugh, finally shoving him away. A few clicks and she’s saved the game. “Let’s play Diablo instead. I’m tired of just sitting here watching you wander around in the snow. Let’s get some co-op up in this bitch.”

Dean shakes his head fondly. “You’re a weirdo, Char, but damn if I didn’t miss this.”

Charlie studies him for a moment before responding, “Me, too. It was hard on all of us, you know? Watching you go through that and not knowing how to help.”

Dean ducks his head. So, they’re talking about this again. He was hoping the beer-and-pizza ambush was the end of the heart to heart moments. “I know. I didn’t mean to shut you out, it was just, yeah,” he trails off.

Charlie leans back against him, snaking one arm around his back to snuggle against his chest. They sit like that for a few minutes, not talking, just breathing the same air. “But you’re better now?”

Dean chuckles, running one hand through her short mop of hair. “Better. A lot better.”

She gives him a final squeeze before pulling away to sit up. “You’re coming to the guild meeting on Saturday, right? Gerry and Garth have been at each other’s throats.”

“I’ll be there. I gotta go see Cas in the morning, but the meeting isn’t til seven, right?”

“Yeah, seven, but Gerry will probably be there early ‘cause he’s a creeper,” she responds with a shudder.

Dean chuckles. He has always found it funny and a little sad that Gerry insists that everyone refer to him as his in-game character, even when they aren’t playing, but the rest of the guild are fun. Dean grabs his drink while he waits for her to load their save file, but she puts the controller down and turns toward him instead. “So, Cas,” she says slyly, edging away slightly.

“What about him?” Dean cuts her off, eyes narrowed. “This isn’t gonna be more bullshit ‘bout how I gotta be careful he’s not playin’ me.”

“No, no,” Charlie assures him quickly. “Just, you spend a lot of time there, and when you’re not there you talk about him constantly. I was just wondering when the rest of us are going to get to meet him.”

Dean blushes, the tips of his ears going red. “Not constantly. I mean, I don’t talk about him all the time. It’s just, he’s been helpin’ me, you know? He’s a good guy, easy to talk to, so it’s cool to just hang out at the shop.”

Charlie places one hand on his chest, pushing him back against the couch. “Whoa, don’t get all bent. It’s just great to see you excited about someone again. Lisa really did a number on you.”

Dean’s brain stutters to a stop. “I’m not, I mean, it’s not the same as Lisa, Charlie. Cas is a guy,” he protests.

Charlie sighs. “Yeah, he’s a guy. A good looking guy?”

“I guess, yeah. I mean, his eyes are so freaking blue and he’s got this hair that always looks like he just rolled out of bed, and he’s,” Dean trails off as Charlie quirks one eyebrow. He clears his throat before finishing, “Yeah, he’s good lookin’, I guess.”

“So, a good looking guy you see every week. You enjoy spending time with him, he makes you happy, he’s gay and noticeably single. When are you going to ask him out?”

Dean blinks. He opens his mouth to respond, but it's like his brain has gone off-line. He blinks again, then finally spits out, “Uh, Charlie, I’m not gay. I like chicks. You remember, like Lisa, and Lydia, and Rhonda. Women, with women parts.”

Charlie rolls her eyes, shaking her head slowly. She lets out a huff of breath. “You know, they’re not actually opposites.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Liking women and liking men aren’t mutually exclusive, Dean. Just because you’ve always dated women before, doesn’t mean you can’t be attracted to Cas.” She pats his arm sympathetically.

“That’s ridiculous, Char. I’m not, what is it, bisexual or whatever. I like women, boobs and curves and the whole works. I don’t gotta tell you about women. You like ‘em too.”

Charlie laughs. “I do, Dean. I like women a lot, and men do nothing for me, but that’s not the case for everyone.”

“Cas and I are friends. That’s it. He’s a guy that’s helpin’ me out and we’re friends. There doesn’t gotta be anything else to it,” he responds adamantly. He grabs the controller from where it fell onto the floor next to the couch and loads their last gamesave, hoping it’s clear that he’s done talking about it.

The conversation may be over, but the thoughts it put into Dean’s head certainly haven’t been exorcised. When he and Sam grab a beer at the Roadhouse Wednesday night, Dean finds himself shyly glancing at the other men in the bar. Are they attractive? What would he even look for in a guy?

Without warning, a scruffy jawline, crystal blue eyes and tousled hair dance through his thoughts. Didn’t he once wonder what Cas’ hair felt like? Is it soft tufts or stiff with product? Does he smell like sandalwood because of the incense in the shop, or is it the bodywash he uses? If his hair looks wrecked in the middle of the day, what would it look like after a bout of sweaty sex?

“Dean!” Sam calls, slamming a hand down on the table. There are two beers in front of him, and Dean didn’t notice Sam return from the bar. “What the hell is up with you? You were, like, gone. I called your name three times.”

Dean shakes his head to clear out the lingering thoughts.  “Sorry, man, sorry. Just thinkin’. Jo gonna come out from behind the bar and shoot some pool with us later?”

Sam studies him for a moment, obviously not convinced Dean is alright. “Yeah, she said once Ash comes in to cover her, she’ll come out. Ellen told her not to bet her tip money, but I figure it doesn’t matter, since she usually kicks your ass anyway.”

Despite Dean’s protests, Jo does beat him in all three games. It’s just because he’s distracted, he tells himself. There are two college kids shooting pool at the other table and Dean finds himself watching them. Every time the dark haired kid bends over the table to shoot, Dean’s attention is drawn to his ass. After the first couple of times, he starts to wonder what Cas would look like in a pair of tight jeans.

Thursday night doesn’t go any better. Dean talks Bobby into letting him bring the Impala to the shop after hours to do some maintenance. As Dean pulls into the bay, Bobby pulls the big door down behind him. Classic rock reverberates around the garage from the radio Dean never gets to tune during the day. Damn Garth and his adult contemporary crap.

While Dean changes the oil, Bobby sits on an old rolling stool a few feet away. He’s happy to hand Dean tools when he needs them, but he’s made it clear he’s not getting dirty. Instead, he has a couple of restoration catalogs spread out on the work bench.

Dean rolls out from under the car, wiping his dirty hands on the front of his gray t-shirt. “Idjit. I told you to get your jumpsuit on. Damn grease will be everywhere,” Bobby grouses when he sees the smears across Dean’s chest.

“Aww, Bobby, jumpsuits are for work. This isn’t work, this is a labor of love. Ain’t that right, Baby?” he retorts, running one hand lovingly along the Impala’s front quarter panel.

“Get those spark plugs changed, ya damn fool,” Bobby barks, turning back to his catalogs.

Dean grabs a wrench and the boxes of plugs. While he’s working, he checks the plug wires. Those will have to be replaced next. It’s been way too long since he did them. Other than changing the oil religiously, Dean let a lot of the maintenance go while he was with Lisa. He remembers how she used to complain about the amount of time he spent in the garage, until he eventually stopped going on the weekends at all. He’d sneak the Impala into the shop before or after his shift to change the oil, but the rest was neglected.

He slams the hood, running a clean rag along the edge where his fingerprints show. “Order me a set of plug wires, Bobby. It’s been a couple years since I replaced ‘em.” He throws the old parts in the bin.

Bobby grunts his acknowledgement and shoves the catalog at Dean. “Look at that, would ya?”

Dean has no choice but to the take the catalog, with the way Bobby is shoving it right in his face. The pages are covered with classic Chevy restoration and performance parts.  “What’s this, Bobby? You plannin’ on buildin’ a heavy Chevy?”

Bobby grunts. “It’s for you, numbnuts. You been goin’ on ‘bout doing some work on the Impala, so I had Jo order some catalogs off the computer for ya.”

Dean starts to get choked up. He knows everything that went down was hard on his family, but for grouchy old Bobby to go out of his way to get parts catalogs for the Impala it must have been really bad. Forcing his voice even, Dean clasps the man on the shoulder, “Thanks, Bobby. There’s a couple things I been meanin’ to do.”

Sorting through the catalogs, Dean makes a list of the things he’d like to restore or upgrade. He’s giddy with the thought of all the time he’ll be spending under the car or under her hood. With a pang he remembers all of the hours he spent working on the car after his dad died. He could bury himself in the work and forget everything else. Before girls, and before Stanford, Sam would sit in the garage with him, asking him a million questions about what he was doing. Later, Sam would study, or they would talk about movies while Dean worked. He misses that, misses having someone to talk to while he’s working.

Without his awareness or consent, he’s ambushed by an image of Cas sitting on the old rolling stool. He’d be wearing some of Dean’s old clothes so he doesn’t get his stuff dirty, and he’d listen to Dean talk about the car the same way he does when Dean hangs out in his shop, with one hundred percent rapt attention. Eventually, they’d end up bullshitting about whatever topic they stumbled on, until Dean rolled out from under the car and Cas handed him a beer. There’d be a smear of dirt on Cas’ cheek, even though he never touched a wrench, because it’s just what happens to Cas. Dean would laugh and he’d run his fingertips across Cas’ cheekbone before leaning in to . . .

“You gone senile over there, boy?” Bobby mutters, knocking one hand against the back of Dean’s head. “You’re wool gatherin’ and I gotta close up ‘fore that woman has my head. She’s got a roast on.”

Dean shakes his head a few times to clear it. He’s pretty sure he manages a semi-coherent goodbye to Bobby, because the old man lets him go without calling Ellen or Sam. As he drives home, though, he can’t ignore the uncomfortable realization that he just had a daydream about kissing Cas.

* * *

* * *

Dean’s alarm goes off earlier than he would have liked for a Saturday morning, but he still doesn’t have the food thing he needs for his trip to Cas’ today. Between Charlie, drinks with Sam, working on the Impala with Bobby and playing with the cat, he barely thought about the ritual all week.

That, of course, doesn’t mean he hasn’t thought about Cas. Damn Charlie and her big mouth. It’s gotten to the point where he can’t _stop_ thinking about Cas. As he shrugs into tight blue jeans and the shirt Lisa always said brings out his eyes, he wonders if Cas will even notice.  In the bathroom, he brushes his teeth, and then looks himself in the eye in the mirror while running his hand through his close cropped hair to smooth it, adamantly telling himself he is _not_ primping, no matter what it might look like.

Dean wanders into his tiny kitchen. Rather than beer bottles and shot glasses, the counter is littered with dirty dishes he hadn’t washed after cooking dinner last night. He stacks them neatly in the sink, glad he doesn’t have to make breakfast this morning. Thinking about Lisa and the things they ate together, Dean stumbled on the perfect thing for the ritual. _Gabriel’s_ bakery sits right next to Cas’ shop, and it was from going there with Lisa that Dean even knew _Witch Way_ was there. He’ll just stop in and buy her favorite danish.

It is ten till ten when Dean walks up to the front door of _Gabriel’s_. He glances at the shop next door, but the lights are still off. It feels a little weird to be going into the bakery by himself after visiting with Lisa so many times, but he squares his shoulders. It’s just a danish and some coffee.

Rather than the usual thin blond girl behind the counter, a man stands at the register. His brown hair curls over his collar and is swept back behind his ears, a pale yellow apron tied around his waist. The stick from a lollipop is sticking out of his mouth, and he pulls the candy out with a smack of his lips as Dean walks up to the counter.

“What can I get for you?” he asks, brandishing the sucker at Dean with a grin.

“Uh, one of those cheese danishes with the chocolate drizzles and a cup of coffee, to go.”

As the man packages his order and pours a paper to-go cup, Dean looks over the other pastries in the display shelf. “Hey, are those little pies?” he says, pointing at the bottom row of the shelf.

“They’re cherry tarts, but yeah, I guess you could say they’re mini pies. We just started carrying them a couple weeks ago. I got tired of the same old.”

Dean glances up at the man. “You’re Gabriel?”

The shorter man holds the edges of the apron out as he drops into an elaborate curtsey. “In the flesh.”

“You’ve had this shop for a while. I used to come in here all the time with my ex.”

“Going on three years,” Gabriel agrees. “There’s a nice tight group of business owners here, makes for a good community.”

“So, you know the guy who runs the store next door?” Dean asks, aiming for nonchalant.

The man scrunches up his nose before taking an exaggerated suck of the lollipop. It makes a loud popping noise when he pulls it back out. “Cassie? Sure do. Bet he’d love one of those tarts,” he says with a wink. Obviously, nonchalant was a bust.

Would it be weird to bring Cas breakfast? Although they’ve become friendly, they never see each other or talk outside of Saturdays at the shop. Is that what Dean wants, to expand their friendship beyond the store?

“Give me two of those tarts, too,” he says before he chickens out, “and another cup of coffee.”

Gabriel places on the pastry bag on the counter with the coffee and takes the bills Dean offers. Before he punches it into the register, he slides a little card across the counter. “You should sign up for our loyalty club. Buy ten cups of coffee and get one free, plus ten percent off on specialty pastries. You’ll save fifty cents today.”

Dean shrugs. “Sure, why not?” he says and pulls a pen out of the cup on the counter. He fills in his information before trading Gabriel for his change. It can’t hurt, and if things go well with Cas, maybe he’ll be back to frequenting the bakery.

Gabriel looks over the card before putting it under the money tray in the register. “I promise not to send a bunch of junk mail, the address is just for verification that you’re real person. I will send you a coupon for your birthday though.”

Gabriel puts the two cups of coffee into one of the cardboard holders for carrying multiple cups and passes him the bag. “Tell Cassie I said hi,” he says with a grin.

The shop is empty, but Cas is straightening the display in the front window when Dean pushes through the door. He straightens, a smile lighting up his face as soon as he sees Dean. Dean tries hard not to read anything into it.

He holds up the bag and tray. “Brought breakfast,” he announces, and Cas’ grin stretches even farther.

“That’s very nice of you, Dean,” he says, taking the bag while Dean balances the tray of coffees. “I got up late today, so I haven’t had a chance to eat yet. I was actually going to call over and ask Gabriel to send something over, so this is very fortuitous.”

“I got the food thing I used to eat with Lisa over there, so I grabbed us something. Figured if you didn’t like it, I could always eat it myself,” Dean says with a grin as Cas pulls out the tarts and the danish. “He said to tell you hi. Weird dude.”

Cas places the danish on the bag, seeming to know it was the food he shared with Lisa without Dean telling him. He pulls two plastic forks from the shelf under the counter before popping the lid off his coffee long enough to add creamer and sugar from the shop’s stash. “It’s a good thing for you that I am very fond of cherry tarts. You would give yourself a stomach ache eating both. And yes, Gabriel is interesting.”

Dean takes a forkful of his tart, stopping himself before he can moan around the tart’s sugary, buttery taste. He swallows and takes a swig of the coffee. “He kept calling you Cassie. If that’s the nickname you’re used to, it’s no wonder you didn’t mind when I started calling you Cas.”

Cas grins around his own bite of tart. “Yes, well, I have told him before that I don’t appreciate it, but it is very hard to tell Gabriel anything. He does what he wants.”

“Sounds like Charlie,” Dean says, finishing off his tart in two more bites and relaxing back against the wall with his coffee. “Someone so tiny should be easy to push around, but she always gets her way.”

“She sounds very entertaining,” Cas says with a chuckle, still sedately working on his tart between sips of coffee. Finally, he sucks the last bite from the fork and leans back, pushing the miniature pie tin away from himself. “That was wonderful, Dean. Thank you,” he says, brushing the debris into the garbage. He wipes a napkin across his face, smearing a dollop of cherry filling up his cheek from the corner of his mouth.

The sticky sauce glistens, drawing Dean’s eye. “You’ve got some cherry right there,” he says, leaning forward into Cas’ personal space, thumb smoothing over his cheek to pick up the smear of tart sauce. He doesn’t miss the way Cas’ eyes follow his hand as he pulls it back to suck lightly on the tip of his thumb, tasting the fruit there. Cas’ eyes widen just a fraction, so he lets his eyes flick down to Cas’ lips for a moment before meeting his gaze again.

“I, ah, thank you,” Cas stammers, running the napkin over the patch of skin where Dean’s thumb just touched.

Dean lets the edge of his mouth quirk up into flirty smirk. “No problem,” he says, his voice going faintly husky. Cas’ eyes flick back to his lips again, pupils dilating slightly, and Dean gives an internal fist pump. So, the same moves that work on chicks work on guys too. Good to know.

As usual, Dean hangs out in the shop for a few hours. Moving boxes, setting up displays, filling herb jars. The day is much the same as the previous Saturdays, with one slight difference. Now, when Dean moves past Cas in the tiny shop, he _accidentally_ brushes against him. He lets his hand linger on Cas’ waist when he shuffles him out of the way so he can put the herb jars back on the shelf. He leans over Cas’ shoulder to pick up a pile of books, breath ghosting across the back of Cas’ neck.

Each time Dean touches him, Cas inhales slightly, a breathy gasp Dean is quickly becoming addicted to. The first few times he tenses under Dean’s hand, but he soon starts to lean into Dean’s touch, even throwing in a few of his own. When Dean turns from where he’s rearranging the tarot cards on the display, he finds Cas watching him instead of restocking candles from the box at his feet. He head is tilted slightly sideways, eyebrows scrunched together. Dean thinks he looks like some kind of weird bird, and he’s just far gone enough to admit he looks all kinds of adorable.

It’s just after noon by the time they finish the day’s inventory. Dean would love to linger in the shop the rest of the day, but he has plans to meet Sam and their friend Benny for a game of pick-up basketball. He’s slightly pacified by Cas’ little frown of disappointment when he mentions he has to get going.

“Don’t forget the last item, Dean,” Cas reminds him as he gathers up his jacket to go.

Dean really had almost forgotten. One ingredient to go and then the ritual the following Saturday. Two weeks from now, it will be over. Dean imagines he should feel more excited about it. “Yeah, of course, what’s next?” he says, covering his discomfort.

Cas rummages under the counter and comes up holding small glass vial suspended on a chain. “Tears shed over the loved one,” he announces, handing the vial to Dean.

Dean takes the vial, turning it around in his hands. Tears. He resolutely forbid himself to cry over Lisa after the breakup, and he drowned himself in whiskey to escape the weight of those unshed tears. Now he’s just supposed to let them fall, collect them in this little vial, and hand them over as if they aren’t a symbol of his failure? What the hell?

He raises his eyes to find Cas watching him quietly, his blue eyes searching Dean’s face. He tucks the vial into his pants pocket and squeezes the back of his neck as he sighs. “I got this, man. Tears in a jar. See you in a week.” He turns and walks out of the shop, the wind chimes marking his exit.

[ ](http://s102.photobucket.com/user/kirchnsr/media/WHICHWAYHOME1_zpsz86d9xvi.png.html)


	7. Chapter 7

The stretch of two lane blacktop out around the lake and back has always been one of Dean’s favorite routes to just get behind the wheel and drive. It’s been over a year since he’s gotten in the car and let loose, windows down and AC/DC cranked on the stereo. It’s easy to get lost in the rumble of Baby’s engine and the feel of the gas pedal under his foot.

The parts he and Bobby ordered out of Bobby’s catalogs to upgrade her suspension should be here within a week. Dean can’t wait. He’s just as excited about turning a wrench underneath her as he is with the idea of testing out the results. He eases the pedal down farther, rolling into the corners as he imagines what she’ll feel like after he’s done.

Dean’s eyes flicker over to the empty passenger seat. When he and Lisa first started dating, he’d taken her out in the Impala. They’d pack a picnic lunch and drive out to the lake or just drive out to Topeka and back, listening to the radio and talking. By the time they moved in together two years later, they hadn’t been in Baby together in over a year. It happened so slowly, the shift so gradual Dean hadn’t even noticed at first.

It started with complaints that Baby’s exhaust noise gave her a headache, so they would take her little Honda. Then it became about saving money for the apartment, because god knows Baby isn’t easy on fuel. Dean still drove the Impala to work every day, but any time he and Lisa went anywhere together, they took her car. Eventually, she started making little comments about trading the Impala in on a little foreign sports car. At the time Dean thought she was joking, but now he’s not so sure.

Long drives just hanging out turned into fancy dinners, going to clubs with her friends, or sitting on the couch watching her television shows. After a while, she started complaining about the time he spent in the garage on the weekends. She always made him feel guilty, saying he was neglecting her for the car, so eventually that stopped too. Dean resorted to sneaking the car into the garage after his shift and maintenance he once savored became a race against the clock to make it home before Lisa noticed he was late.

The Impala’s tires crunch on gravel as Dean pulls off into a scenic overlook above the reservoir. It’s not quite eight o’clock, still daylight, but the sun is low in the sky, sending out ribbons of yellow, purple and orange across the horizon. Dean parks the car and walks over to the bench set at the top of the rise. The whole lake is visible from the overlook, the boats specks on the water. He brought Lisa here a couple times at the beginning, where they would sit on the bench holding hands while talking about their future.

Dean pulls the vial from his pocket, silver chain curled around his fist. There are so many plans that never happened. He had plans to take Lisa on so many different road trips. Dean wanted to see the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls, the Black Hills of South Dakota and the redwood forests. He envisioned long days in the car on back roads and a series of kitschy motel rooms. Looking back though, he realizes those things were probably never going to happen, even if he and Lisa had stayed together.

Cas, though, definitely seems like the road trip type. He has the same wandering spirit as Dean. After living in a monastery in south Asia, backpacking across Europe and camping in a yurt in Canada, Cas would take to road trips like he was born to it.

Dean closes his eyes and imagines Cas in Baby. Hair made even messier from the wind coming in through the open window, three days of stubble covering his jaw and aviator glasses shielding his piercing blue eyes, he’d slump in the passenger seat. He’d find it cute when Dean makes him navigate from a paper map rather than the GPS on his phone, and he’d get grumpy when they spend too many hours in the car. Dean would park along a dusty back road, and they’d climb into the backseat and make out until Dean made it up to him.

Dean opens his eyes and looks down at the vial clenched in his fist, a smile tugging at his lips. Shoving it back into his pocket, he walks back over to the car and slides behind the wheel. Even though he didn’t get the tears he needed, he can’t bring himself to care.

He’s still smiling when he pulls into the parking lot of the Roadhouse. Sam’s truck is already there, so Dean heads straight to the bar where he knows Sam will be waiting. As expected, his brother sits at the far end. There’s a beer in front of him, but it doesn’t look like he’s even touched it.

Dean snags the beer bottle off the counter and takes a long drink before handing it back. At Sam’s indignant huff, he grins cheekily. “That’s alcohol abuse, Sammy. You’re supposed to drink it, not glare at it.”

“Nice, Dean. Real mature. You might as well just keep it,” he mutters, signaling Jo to bring him another one. “Do you want to stay here or snag a booth for dinner?”

Dean drops onto the bar stool next to Sam and turns to survey the room. “Nah, this is good.” It’s not incredibly busy since it’s a weeknight, but his favorite booth in the back corner is taken. “Joanna Beth, tell Ash to put a burger on and bring me some loaded nachos,” he calls to the blond behind the bar. “I’m freaking starving.”

“Call me Joanna Beth one more time, Winchester, and I’ll spit in your burger before I bring it out,” she snaps back.

Dean turns wide eyes on Ellen, who is mixing a drink at the other end of the bar. “Do you hear how your daughter talks to your patrons?  I’d like to lodge a formal complaint,” he says seriously, earning a snort of laughter from Sam.

Ellen just sighs and delivers the drink to a tired looking brunette midway down the bar. “Do you think there will ever come a time in your lives when you two will stop acting like children?”

“He started it!” Jo claims indignantly.

Ellen throws her bar rag at her daughter. “I rest my case,” she says with a shake of her head before turning to Sam for his dinner order. She heads back to the kitchen to deliver the orders, giving Dean the opportunity to cross his eyes and stick out his tongue at Jo behind her back.

Jo loses her battle not to laugh, instead throwing the bar rag at Dean this time. “You’re an ass.”

“But you love me,” Dean responds, fluttering his eyelashes.

“God knows why,” she counters, retreating to the other end of the bar with a flounce.

“You’re in a good mood,” Sam observes.

Dean shrugs. He _is_ in a good mood. He’s supposed to be blubbering tears into the vial in his pocket, but he can’t seem to shake his good humor. “I can’t be in a good mood?” he responds sulkily.

“Of course you can. It’s just nice to see.”

“The breakup really screwed me up, Sammy.”

Sam opens his mouth to respond, then clamps it shut, but not before Dean catches the movement. “What? What were you going to say?”

“It’s nothing, just I, well, I wasn’t just talking about the breakup.”

Dean narrows his eyes, ignoring the nachos Jo delivered from the back. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam picks up a nacho and plops it in his mouth, chewing slowly. He takes a long swallow of his beer, clearly weighing his words before answering. “It’s not just since the breakup that you’ve been unhappy.”

The words hang between them for a few moments. “Of course I was happy before the breakup, I was gonna ask her to marry me, Sam. Why would I do that if I wasn’t happy?”

Sam reaches for another nacho, and then pulls his hand away with a sigh. He turns to face Dean directly, his hazel eyes warm and sincere. “Because you thought it’s what you should do? Because you didn’t want to be alone?” he suggests softly. “I’m not really sure, but it certainly wasn’t because you were happy.”

Dean wants to defend himself, he really does, but hadn’t he thought those same things? Hadn’t he watched Sam and Jess’ relationship progress and felt like he was missing something, a crucial step in becoming an adult? He’s beginning to feel like his entire relationship with Lisa was a charade. “You didn’t like her,” he accuses, trying to regain control of conversation.

“I didn’t,” Sam admits sadly, “but not really because of her. I just didn’t like how you seemed to give up yourself for her, like she was changing you into someone else. You stopped coming out with me and Benny or coming to dinner at Bobby and Ellen’s. We hardly ever saw you in the Impala and Charlie said you were skipping guild meetings.”

Dean has no response, because it’s all true. He’s thought the same things over the past few weeks. Cas’ tasks have made him see that he changed so many things about himself to suit Lisa, from what he ate and what shows he watched on TV to what he did in his spare time. Everything was based on Lisa’s whims, even the amount of time he saw his family or friends. With no immediate comeback, Dean just swallows thickly.

Not getting the resistance he was expecting, Sam continues. “The last few times I saw you together, you were different, like you were on edge. You didn’t tease or tell your corny jokes. You were quieter, more subdued. Even towards the end, when you started coming to dinner by yourself, you just didn’t seem like you.”

Dean recalls the last few holidays he and Lisa spent with his family. The day always started with a fight of some kind because Lisa didn’t want to go. When they were at Bobby’s, Lisa would critique everything, from Ellen’s cooking to Sam’s hair and Dean’s off-color humor. It became so draining that he eventually started leaving Lisa at home. Even then, the fights continued, usually surrounding a complaint of his time with his family interfering with something she wanted to do. It just became easier to stop going than it was to constantly fight with her over it. How had he forgotten that?

“I just wanted it to work out, you know? I wanted something in my life to work out the way it should,” he responds. He closes his eyes and waits for the burning of unshed tears to start behind his eyelids, but he feels nothing but an odd sense of resignation. Not the crushing despair and guilt he’s become used to at the thought of how he failed her, just a niggling sensation of sadness.

Sam clasps a warm hand on his shoulder. “I know, man, but I don’t think it was really working out. Now, you seem back to your old self. A pain in everyone’s assess and everything.”

Dean is grateful for Sam’s attempt to lighten the mood, so he grins and shoves a few more nachos into his mouth than can comfortably fit, earning him a chuckle and a smack on the shoulder. He lets Sam change the subject completely, his brother lamenting the work Jess has him putting in planning Sarah’s upcoming birthday party, and by the time their dinners arrive, the lingering awkwardness has dissipated.

Dean can’t stop thinking about everything that has changed, though. He’s working on Baby again, visiting with Sam and Jess, dinner with Bobby and Ellen, guild meetings and video game battles with Charlie, and he’s even adopted a freaking cat. All of those things can be traced back to one person. Cas.

Dean wants to tell Sam about Cas, about his crazy mixed up feelings for the man and how he’s beginning to wonder if straight is really a word that can be applied to him. He wants to ask his brother whether he thinks the Roadhouse is a good first date with Cas, since he’s always brought first dates here before, but he’s worried it might be too much pressure with so many of his friends and family likely to be there.

Would Sam care if Dean started dating a guy? How would the rest of his friends and family react? He’s pretty sure Sam, Jess, Ellen and Jo would be fine with it. Bobby might grouse a little, but Dean doesn’t think he would really care either. Charlie, being a lesbian herself, is obviously in enthusiastic favor. Would Benny be okay with it? How about the guys at the garage? Dean is suddenly crushingly relieved his dad is dead, because he’s almost certain John Winchester would not tolerate his son dating a man. He likes to think his mom would support him, though.

Before he can let his anxiety loosen his tongue, Dean reminds himself that he’s not even sure he actually wants to date Cas. Sure, he’s had a couple of fantasies and he’s thought about it a little, but it’s a far cry from the reality of acknowledging he’s less than straight and acting on it. He’s not even sure if Cas is interested in him in that way. What if he goes through the awkward trauma of coming out to his brother, and then Cas rejects him? Better to hold his tongue until he’s sure how everything is going to play out.

The thoughts eat at him for the next two days until he can’t hold them inside any longer. Putting his pizza plate on the side stand, he balls up the napkin from his lap and tosses it at Charlie, who is curled up on the other end of his couch, the cat in her lap. It hits her cheek and bounces to the floor, Manasa scrambling after it. Charlie’s eyes don’t even flicker from where Frodo and Samwise are scaling Mount Doom on the screen.

He starts balling up another one. “You could just ask for my attention, you know,” she says, still not looking at him. “Use your big boy words.”

Dean thinks about it but throws the napkin at her anyway, the paper bouncing off the top of her head this time. Taking a deep breath, he forces out the words all at once in a long exhale. “I do think Cas is hot.”

Whether it’s his admission or the near panic in his voice, he certainly has Charlie’s attention now. She pauses the TV and turns to him slowly. “Um, want to repeat that?”

“I, ah, I guess you were, ah, right. I do, I mean, I am kind of, well, attracted to Cas,” Dean manages to stammer out without puking, though his heart feels like it’s about to beat out of his chest.

Dean braces himself for her ridicule, but she must sense he’s a bit fragile right now because she just raises one dainty eyebrow and shrugs. “Ok. And?”

Dean clasps his hand over his eyes, pressing on the bridge of his nose. “And I don’t know what to do about it.”

“Just do what you would do if Cas was a woman. Ask him out,” she answers as if it’s the most simple, obvious thing in the world.

Dean peeks through his fingers at her, expecting a smirk, but she’s unflinchingly sincere. He removes his hand, eyes wide and imploring. “But he’s not a woman, Char. What if I’m wrong? What if I ask him out and we get, you know, physical and I can’t go through with it? And then it ruins our friendship and he never wants to speak to me again?”

Charlie looks at him like he has said something incredibly stupid. “Why would that happen, Dean? You’re psyching yourself out. I mean, yeah, the parts are different, but sex is sex. It feels good no matter what parts are involved.”

Dean can’t get past the thought that’s been circling in his brain all day. “What if I’m, you know, turned off by seeing another dude’s dick?” he forces out in a small voice. He clamps his hand over his eyes again.

“For crying out loud, you’ve seen other guy’s dicks before, Dean. You watch porn, like, a lot. You’ve probably seen more dicks than most women. Seeing a guy’s dick doesn’t turn you off then, does it?”

Dean glances back over at her. “But I’m not really lookin’ at the dude then. I mean, I am, ‘cause, you know, that’s the good stuff, but,”

“Eww, Dean!” Charlie cuts him off, “I really, really don’t need a play-by-play of your jerking off procedure.”

“Jesus, Charlie, I wasn’t going to. You’re the one who brought it up! I just meant, there’s still women there. Women to look at, women to imagine. Once I go there with Cas, assuming he’s actually interested, there’s no female parts to fall back on.” Dean’s face feels hot, like the blush is creeping clear up to his ears. Why the hell did he think talking to Charlie about his sex life would be a good idea?

“First, why wouldn’t he be interested? He’s an idiot if he isn’t. Second, if you’re so worried about it, dial up some man on man action and see if two beef sticks ruin the show,” she suggests with a smirk.

“I don’t know why I even try to talk to you,” Dean protests, mortified that the evening has devolved into a discussion of his porn habits.

“I’m serious. Joking and innuendos aside, if you’re turned on by watching gay porn, chances are you won’t have any problems doing the horizontal mambo with Cas.” She picks up the remote and motions toward to the TV as a way to ask if they’re done.

“Ok, yeah, I get it,” Dean relents. “Oh, and Charlie? Let’s pretend this conversation never happened.”

Charlie salutes him with the remote and presses play. “Deal.”

With all his obsessing over Cas, Friday night sneaks up on him. The pan he used to make burgers for dinner is soaking in the sink while Dean relaxes back onto the couch with a mug of the tea Cas gave him and his beat up copy of _Slaughterhouse-Five_. The glass vial rests heavily against his chest, suspended from his neck by the thin silver chain. It is still empty and he’s given up hope of working himself up enough to get the tears he needs.

It isn’t that he’s holding himself back, stopping himself from crying like he used to. Rather, the thought of Lisa no longer fills him with the soul-crushing sorrow it once did. He tried, he really had, to make her happy, but he realizes he never could. Not because he failed, or because there was something wrong with him, but because he and Lisa were never right for each other. She was never really happy with _him_. As soon as they started dating she started changing him into what she wanted him to be. He gave up the things he liked to make her happy, so it was never really _him_ that made her happy at all. The worst part was that throughout it all, he lost what made him happy.

That has all changed now. He has his family back and his time with his friends. He’s cooking, LARPing with Charlie, and watching sci-fi reruns. He’s got his cat, his Baby, and his collection of Vonnegut, and he’s happy. The only thing he wishes is that he had someone to share those things with.

He sorts through over a month of conversations with Cas in his head and imagines actually sharing all of the things they’ve talked about with Cas. He wants Cas to meet his cat, his family, and his friends, and he wants to meet Cas’ cat, family, and friends in return. He wants to learn everything he can about Cas and have Cas know him too.

Dean wraps his fist around the vial. He doesn’t need it anymore, because it doesn’t matter. He’s not going to finish the ritual. He doesn’t need to. Cas’ quests reintroduced him to himself and now he wants to share himself with Cas. Tomorrow, he’ll go into the shop, return the vial and tell Cas he doesn’t want to finish the ritual. Instead, he’ll ask Cas if he wants to have dinner and see a movie.

Decided, he tucks the vial into his shirt with a smile, and cracks open his book to the first chapter.

* * *

* * *

The sun is shining when Dean pauses outside the front entry of  _Witch Way,_ a travel tray of coffees and a pastry bag of tarts from _Gabriel’s_ balanced precariously in his arms. The strange proprietor next door rung his order up with a wink, telling him he added an extra shot of espresso to Cas’ coffee because “Cassie was up late last night fretting,” whatever the hell that means.

There are already a few customers in the shop, and Cas is helping a young couple sort through the herbs, so Dean heads straight to the back of the store. He places his cargo on the counter and pops his coffee from the tray, careful to avoid Cas’ juiced up drink. Sipping the steaming liquid, he watches Cas with the customers, admiring the way he moves through the store, his pale gray yoga pants clinging to his hips. Every time he reaches up for a jar from the shelf above his head, his faded Lilith Fair t-shirt rides up, revealing a sliver of skin at his waistband that unerringly draw’s Dean’s attention.  

Dean shifts uneasily on his stool, trying not to appreciate the way Cas’ sharp hipbones peek from the waistband of his pants. Against his better judgment, he took Charlie’s advice the night before and pulled up some gay porn on his laptop. He’s grateful he and Charlie have sworn to never speak of it again, because he doesn’t think he could stand her told-you-so.  Not only did two dicks _not_ kill his arousal in the least, his own gave an enthusiastic stamp of approval. His dreams, as well as his morning shower, were haunted with fantasies of the videos he watched, starring himself and Cas instead.

Fairly certain a strange man lurking in the back of the shop with an erection isn’t good for business, he forces himself to look away from Cas. Instead, he watches the other patrons of the store. By the time Cas has finished measuring out the couple’s herbs, two more women have entered the shop.

When Cas comes to the register to ring up the multiple baggies of herbs, his face lights up upon seeing Dean waiting. He gratefully accepts his coffee and looks like he wants to hug Dean when Dean tells him he already added creamer and sugar the way Cas likes it. Taking a large gulp, he slides it close to the register so it doesn’t get spilled, then motions to indicate the other customers. “Give me a few minutes to get everyone taken care of.”

Dean shrugs. “Do your thing, man. I’ve got all day.” Well, maybe not quite all day, but close enough. Dean has already made plans with Sam and Jess for dinner at seven. He figures if things go well today, he’s going to want to tell Sam about Cas before it gets back to Sam by word of mouth. Lawrence may be the sixth largest city in Kansas, but Dean doesn’t underestimate the power of Sam’s spy network. On the other hand, if it goes poorly, he’s going to need Sam and Jess to pick up the pieces. Either way, brother time seems like the way to go.

Cas heads back out into the shop, flitting from customer to customer and ensuring everyone is finding what they’re looking for. When he starts a conversation with an older woman about the relative merits of paraffin versus beeswax versus soy based candles for candle magic spells, Dean tunes out, his gaze skimming over the papers and books spread out on the workbench behind the counter.

Although he’s not really looking for it, Dean recognizes the cover of the book Cas has been reading the ritual out of lying tucked under some papers. Since he’s not going to finish the ritual, he’s suddenly curious about what the rest of the steps entail.

Glancing over to where Cas is still engrossed in the candle wax debate, Dean slowly slides the book out of the pile and pulls it over to himself. Up close now, Dean’s pretty sure it’s the same book, because he remembers thinking the abstract design on the cover looks like feathers.

Dean flips the book open to the beginning, looking for a table of contents that might help him find the ritual, but he’s confused when the first few pages are blank. Turning the pages farther into the book, Dean’s heart begins to beat more rapidly with every page he turns. Blank. They’re all blank. Every single page. He flips the book shut and looks at the cover again. It’s definitely the same book. Rifling through the pages faster and faster, his pulse is starting to pound in his ears.

What the hell? Where is the ritual? Was there ever a ritual at all? Why would Cas pretend to read out of a blank book? Dean thinks back to those first times he visited the shop, the awkwardness and Cas’ barely contained anger when he told Dean he wouldn’t help him. What changed Cas’ mind so quickly? Cas said it was because Dean reminded him of himself, but now Dean isn’t so sure. He’s pretty certain Cas never actually changed his mind at all.

Dean feels like he’s going to be sick. The blood rushing in his ears is making him light-headed. When Cas brings the woman over to the counter with her candles to ring up her order, Dean shoves the book under his leg where Cas can’t see it. He’s not sure what his face looks like, but it must be showing something of the turmoil he’s feeling because Cas gives him a curious, concerned look as he makes her change. He does the head-tilty/squinty thing Dean usually finds adorable, but right now he’s fighting the urge to smash his fist into Cas’ face.

All of the other patrons have left the store, and Cas walks the woman partway to the door, before turning back toward Dean. He searches Dean’s face, eyes wide with apprehension, but he doesn’t speak until the wind chimes signal that they are alone. “Dean?” he questions softly, “Dean, what’s wrong?”

When Dean pulls the book out from under his leg and throws it on the counter, Cas’ expression turns from worry to panic. In that moment, Dean knows he’s right. There was never any ritual. Cas made it up. “I can explain, Dean. Please, let me explain,” Cas stammers, rushing closer, but Dean stumbles back off the stool, knocking it over in his haste to put distance between them.

“Explain what, Cas?” he bites out angrily. He grabs the book from the counter and brandishes it at Cas. “Explain how there was never a ritual? Explain how you made the whole thing up?”

“It isn’t what it looks like,” Cas declares, reaching for Dean, but stopping when Dean snarls at him.

“Don’t you dare fucking touch me. I swear to god I will knock you on your ass,” Dean growls. “Not what it looks like, huh? Because it sure as fuck looks like you decided to get back at the ignorant asshole who insulted you by fucking with him.”

Cas’ breath is coming in erratic gasps now. Fear, probably, that Dean will get violent now that he’s found out that he’s been made a fool of.

“That’s fucking low, man. You saw what I was like, how fucked up I was. It takes a fucking stone-cold ruthless bastard to screw with someone in that condition.”

“I didn’t, Dean. I swear, it wasn’t like that,” Cas is saying, one hand clutching his chest, but it just makes Dean more irate.

“You know the worst part? The joke went over even bigger than you planned, Cas. Not only did you get a good laugh over fucking with me, making me jump through your ridiculous hoops, you managed to hit the bonus prize of ripping my heart out again.”

Cas’ eyes widen in shock as he realizes what Dean is saying and he sways on his feet, grabbing the edge of the counter for balance.

“That’s right, you sick son of a bitch. I was fucking falling for you. I really thought we had something here, you know, that we connected, or whatever. Fucking chick-flick emo drama bullshit. I don’t even fucking like guys, Cas. In my whole life, I’ve never been attracted to another guy, so why you, huh? Unless you did something to me, cast some kind of spell on me to make me want you!” Dean is on a roll now, his voice rising in volume with each word.

Cas lets out a broken sob. “I wouldn’t, oh goddess, I wouldn’t, I would never do that, Dean, you have to believe me. I would never do that.” His voice is raw, broken.

Dean throws the book on the floor at Cas’ feet and stalks to the door. Yanking it open, he sends the wind chimes flailing wildly. Turning back, he can’t stop his voice from breaking, a single tear sliding free and working its way down his cheek in a wet swath. “Five weeks, man. You fucked me up good. It took Lisa three years, but at least she broke my heart with a clean break. She didn’t jerk me around and play mind games with me. Hope you’re real fucking proud of yourself.”

Dean lets the door slam behind him, almost barreling into Gabriel, who is poised as if he was about the open the door. “Yeah, a real nice, tight knit community you have here. Hope all your neighbors aren’t assholes like this guy,” Dean mutters, stalking down the sidewalk before anymore tears can fall.


	8. Chapter 8

There’s a terrible crashing noise coming from somewhere in the room, but Dean can’t bring himself to open his eyes. He pulls the pillow out from under his head and smashes it against his face. It doesn’t help, the pounding continues.

Rolling over on the couch, Dean cracks his right eye open. It can’t be too late because the room is still bathed in shadows and pale light from the window. He doesn’t remember switching from beer to whiskey, but the mostly empty bottle on the coffee table tells him he must have. The bottle lies on its side, what’s left of the contents dripping weakly onto the floor.

Dean starts to close his eye again, but the pounding is still roaring through the room. Now it has a voice, one sounding an awful lot like Sam. Dean groans and grinds his eyes shut, pushing the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.

“I know you’re in there, Dean. The Impala is out front,” Sam yells, starting another round of pounding. “Open the goddamn door so I at least know you’re alive.”

Dean rolls off the couch and crawls most of the way to the door, his stomach heaving. He grabs the handle and pulls himself upright. “Okay, man, cut it out before the neighbors call the cops,” he mutters, yanking the door open. He staggers back to the couch and collapses, leaving Sam standing in the open doorway.

There’s the soft snick of Sam closing the door, then he’s stalking across the room. “What the hell, Dean? You were supposed to be at the house for dinner over an hour ago. Jess and I were worried sick.”

Dean groans and snags his phone from where it’s lying on the floor next to the couch. It lights up when he touches it, showing eight unanswered texts and three missed calls. He tosses it back on the floor and grabs the whiskey bottle instead. Upending it, he lets the last few drops slide down his throat before throwing it in the direction of the kitchen. There are two more full bottles sitting on the counter.

“Sorry, man. Something came up,” Dean says with a weak cough.

“Did something happen? Something happened. You were getting better, Dean. Everything was going so well. Tell me what happened,” Sam pleads, kneeling on the floor next to the couch before putting his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

The warmth of Sam’s touch almost does Dean in, so he shoves him away. “Sure, something happened. I woke up, woke up and realized the whole thing, my whole fucking life, is one big joke. I don’t get the happy ending, Sammy. It’s just not in the cards.” He lets out a weedy laugh, ugly and grating in its desperation.

“Dean, it’s not. You know that’s not true. I know Lisa messed you up, but things were getting better. You were laughing again. You’ve been happier the last couple weeks.”

Dean glares at him drunkenly.  “Happy is a lie. At least for me. I don’t get to be happy. I get lies until the rug gets pulled out from under me and I realize the big cosmic joke is on me. First Lisa, then Cas. They know I don’t deserve to be happy. I’m not worth it.”

Sam is silent for a moment and Dean can see the moment the lightbulb goes on. “Something happened with Cas. You and Cas had a fight? Is that what this is about, Dean?”

“Fuck you, Sammy,” Dean slurs, turning away to press his face against the back of the couch. “Fuck you, and fuck Cas, and fuck Lisa and who gives a fuck anyway?”

“You can’t keep doing this, Dean. You can’t drown yourself in a bottle every time someone hurts you. I know it sucks, but you’re going to end up killing yourself.” Sam’s words are pleading, his eyes wide and expressive.

“So what? Probably be better off. Just follow in dad’s footsteps, right into a ditch. Always was the most like the old man, right? His perfect little clone. Guess we’re seeing how much alike we really are.” He curls in on himself and forces back tears.

Sam flinches. “You don’t mean that. You’re not dad. You have people who love you, Dean. Let us help you.”

The fear in Sam’s voice triggers all of Dean’s ingrained protectiveness, his dad’s voice gruff in his ear. _Take care of Sammy_ , _boy._ It’s the only thing Dean’s ever been good at. Sam’s a big shot lawyer now, pretty wife, beautiful baby, nice house. The only thing in Dean’s entire pathetic, god-forsaken life he’s ever done right.

Dean drags himself up to sitting, takes a deep breath and forces a smile. “I know, Sammy. I’m not, I mean, I ain’t gonna do anything stupid. I just need to sleep it off, man. I’ll be okay. Tell Jess I’m sorry about tonight. I’ll make it up to her.”

Sam doesn’t look convinced. “I can stay here tonight, Dean. I’ll sleep on the couch and things will look different in the morning,” he offers.

“Nah, I’m fine. I’m good. Go home to your pretty wife and your baby. I got this. Lock up after yourself, okay?” Sam lets him push himself up from the couch. He stumbles down the hallway to the bedroom and flops onto the bed with his clothes still on. Sam’s hands are gentle as he undresses Dean to his boxers and pulls the covers over him. He hears Sam moving around out in the living room for a few minutes, and then there is just blessed blackness.

Despite Sam’s promise, the next morning doesn’t bring any comfort, just more of the same crushing sorrow. Dean’s head pounds in the early morning light and when he rolls over there are two painkillers and a bottle of water sitting on the nightstand with his phone. He swallows the little white pills before stumbling into the bathroom, his stomach roiling to match the ache in his head. Manasa is crying in the hallway for her breakfast when he comes out of the bathroom, so he tips some food into her dish before staggering back into the bedroom and falling into unconsciousness again.

When he wakes up again, it’s almost noon. His phone is blinking on the nightstand with a text from Sam. Not wanting a repeat of last night, he sends off a reply to show he’s alive and pulls the pillow over his head, drowning out the light.

By mid-afternoon, Dean has sobered up enough that the heartache has become overwhelming. He drags himself out of bed and heads to the kitchen to grab a bottle of whiskey, only to find the bottles aren’t where he’s sure he left them last night. He pulls the fridge door open, but his case of beer is missing too.

Fucking Sam. He should have known. Sam pulled that shit on dad too, dumping out or hiding all the alcohol in the house one night while dad was passed out.  The resulting fight was so bad it ended with a broken side table and Dean with a black eye when he got between them.  Sam was seven, Dean eleven. Less than six months later, dad was dead and they were moving in with Bobby.  Dean thinks about sending his brother a nasty text, but it will probably bring the sasquatch over to coddle him some more, so he just drags on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt and walks to the liquor store on the corner.

Stocked up with alcohol again, he’s comfortably numb by dinner time. He hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast yesterday, but he’s not hungry, so he just crawls back into bed with the half empty bottle of whiskey. His phone blinks on the nightstand, so he reaches over and swipes the screen on. Two missed texts from Benny, one from Sam and a call each from Charlie and Ellen. Dean tips the bottle to his lips and hurls the phone into the corner before passing out again.

The sun is shining in his little window when he resurfaces again.  Guitar riffs play over and over from his phone where it still lays in the corner. The noise stops, only to restart a few moments later, so Dean drags himself out of bed to retrieve the phone.  Six missed calls from Bobby, who is calling again, so Dean punches the answer button. 

Bobby’s gruff voice spills out. “I don't know what’s eating at you, boy, but you better pull your head outta your ass and get to work tomorrow.”

Dean's head aches and his mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton, but he manages to croak out, “I'm sorry, Bobby.”

“Yeah, I know. Talked to Sam. Take today, get your shit together and come in tomorrow.”

Dean grunts an affirmative and hangs up.  He lies there, trying to will his head to stop pounding, but it doesn't help.  Manasa is crying outside the bedroom door so he drags himself up and pulls the door open.

She winds between his feet as he stumbles down the hall to fill her food and water, almost sending him crashing into the wall more than once. Once she's happily filling her stomach, Dean staggers into the bathroom to wash the gritty feel of a two day bender from his skin. The warm water washing over him does nothing to clear his head, but at least he no longer stinks like whiskey and sweat.

Dean wanders to the kitchen and rifles through the fridge. Now that he’s sobered up a little, his stomach is growling but he doesn’t have the energy to cook. He pulls out a pack of hot dogs instead and eats two of them cold standing at the counter. He pops the top off of a bottle of beer into the sink and carries it to the couch with two more hot dogs from the pouch.

He turns on the TV and boots up Netflix, but the first row of recommendations make him want to puke the hot dogs back up. “Because you watched _The Craft” . . ._ the selection mocks him with _Bewitched_ , _Charmed_ , and _Practical Magic._ Dean tips back a long swallow from the bottle of beer and quickly scrolls to his list of stand-bys. Hitting “play from the beginning _”_ on _Firefly,_ he lets Manasa curl up on his chest and loses himself in the adventures of the ragtag group of space pirates.

Netflix has timed out back to the main menu when he wakes up the next morning. At least he won’t be late for work today, because he’s pretty sure Bobby would have no qualms about kicking his ass in front of the other guys. Dean drags himself into work and manages to dodge Bobby most of the day.

By mid-afternoon though, it’s clear the other guys are done with his pissy attitude. Relegated to the back bay again, Dean is fine with just doing his work and staying out of everyone’s way. From back here, he can barely hear the cheery pop songs playing on Garth’s radio, so it seems like less of a punishment than a reprieve.

Over the next four days, Dean’s life falls into the familiar bland, colorless existence he’d become used to over the last few months, before _Witch Way_ , before Cas. Work, home to choke down whatever food he can scrounge up and a six-pack of beer before he passes out on the couch with Manasa sprawled on top of him. At least he’s not alone, he tells himself. He bought her unconditional love when he saved her from certain death.

Dean dodges what calls and texts he can, relenting to answer a couple every few days just to keep Sam and Charlie off his ass. Sam hasn’t shown back up at the apartment, thankfully, but Charlie shoves through his front door Thursday night with a pizza despite his complaints. Although she pressures him to tell her what’s wrong, guessing astutely that it has something to do with Cas, he resolutely ignores her questions and eats two pieces of pizza just to get her to leave him alone. She leaves after two hours with a promise to keep coming back.

Dean is fairly successful at ignoring any thoughts of Cas for most of the week, but everything crashes down around him on Friday. As he’s leaving the shop, Bobby calls him into the office.

“Your stuff came this morning,” Bobby grunts, pointing to a small pile of boxes in the corner of his office. At first, Dean isn’t sure what he’s talking about, but then he recognizes the logo on the side of one of the boxes. The parts for the Impala.

A sudden pain in his chest almost doubles Dean over. He had a fantasy when he ordered the parts of him and Cas working on the car together. So much of his thoughts over the past two weeks were wrapped up in all of the things he and Cas would do. Now those fantasies taunt him.

When Dean looks back up at Bobby, the old man is watching him steadily. “You know if you need any,” Bobby starts reluctantly. He hates chick-flick moments just as much as Dean does.

“I’ll take them out to the car,” Dean cuts him off. He starts to gather up the boxes.

“Son,” Bobby tries again, his voice gruff with emotion.

Dean gasps in a deep breath. Bobby has been more of a father to him than his own dad ever was, and he knows that despite the old man’s surly ways, he loves both of the Winchester boys as if they were his own flesh and blood. “I got it, Bobby. I just, I’m all right, okay?” he says, trying desperately to gather up the boxes before he breaks down.

Bobby nods, holding the door open for him, and Dean escapes into the parking lot. He dumps what will fit into the trunk and shoves the rest onto the back seat. The thought of working on the car doesn’t have the same appeal it did just a week ago.

The air in the apartment tonight is more oppressive than usual. Over the past month and a half, Dean developed a habit of using Friday night to prepare for seeing Cas on Saturday. At first, it was just to make sure he had the item he needed for the ritual, but toward the end it was in preparation for spending time with the man himself.

A long, empty Saturday stretches out in front of him instead. Dean wanders through the apartment, not able to settle. Nothing in the kitchen looks appealing to eat and he ran out of beer last night, but he doesn’t feel like walking to the store. He ambles down the hallway to make sure Manasa’s food and water are full before returning to the living room.

Finally, the soft glint of crystal catches his eye. The vial is lying on the coffee table where he left it, partially hidden by a pizza box, it’s silver chain wound around the bottom of an empty beer bottle. He grabs it and sinks back onto the couch, crushing it in his fist.

Until the warm wet drops hit his hand where he’s clutching it to his chest, Dean isn’t even aware he’s crying. Once the realization hits him, though, he can’t stop the deep sobs ripping through him. He curls his legs up under him and clutches a pillow in his other hand until he’s gasping for air. His face is soaked with tears now, running down his cheeks into his ears, dripping onto his shirt. He’s not even sure why he’s crying. Is it over Cas himself, or is it because he let himself dream again, only to have the dreams ripped away before he even got a chance at them? He’s so fucking pathetic; he deserves to be alone. It’s no wonder he can’t find anyone willing to put up with him.

Dean is struck by the irony of all those months he refused to cry over Lisa followed by the week he tried to drum up enough tears to fill the little vial to no avail. There are plenty of tears now. He thinks about pulling the cork on the vial and filling the bottle with his tears over Cas. It would be fitting somehow.

The sudden, violent anger filling him takes away what little breath he has left. Still sobbing, he pitches the vial across the room, but he gets no satisfaction when it shatters on the wall. The loud noise sends Manasa bolting down the hallway, leaving Dean even more disgusted with himself. He grabs the lamp from the end table and smashes it against the floor before kicking over the table itself. Flinging books and videos off the shelves, he lets the wild, crushing pain out in the only way he knows how. Destruction, that’s what he’s good at. Like father, like son.

Surveying the devastation, the anger drains out of him as quickly as it came. Dean slumps to the floor as if he were a puppet whose strings were suddenly cut. He’s still crying, but they’re silent now, as if all of the energy has been rung out of him. Manasa creeps back down the hallway and crawls into his lap, licking the salty streaks from his cheeks. He curls around her on the floor and cries himself to sleep.

* * *

* * *

The warm, wet drag of a sandpaper tongue through the week’s growth of hair on his jaw pulls Dean from a fitful sleep. He groans and rolls over onto his side, sending Manasa careening off his chest. Every muscle in his body aches, but considering he slept the entire night curled in a ball on the kitchen floor, he doesn’t expect much else.

Dean pulls himself up onto shaky legs and grimaces as he looks around the apartment. Shattered glass from the vial and lamp cover the entrance to the hallway and splinters from the smashed end table are layered with books and movie cases. Thankfully, none of the books or movies look like they were destroyed during his fit.

Cool water splashed on his face from the kitchen sink doesn’t do much to improve his outlook. A hot shower will help a whole lot more, but first he has to clean up the glass before he can even get down the hallway without slicing his feet up. Dean grabs the dust pan and a garbage bag to clean up the mess. Damn, he really liked that lamp, he thinks, dropping the larger pieces into the bag before sweeping up the shards.

Manasa sits on the toilet seat and watches him while he showers. It’s a little creepy, but it’s definitely better than being alone. She pads into the bedroom behind him and watches from the door as he pulls on clean boxers and an old Steppenwolf t-shirt. He scoops her up on his way back out the living room, depositing her on the couch before he starts to pick up the mess.

He has half of the first shelf filled when there’s a knock on the door. He heaves himself up and shuffles across the room. Sure it’s either Sam or Charlie, he yanks it open without looking through the peephole. It’s not like neither of them have seen him in his boxers before.

There’s a moment of sharp surprise when he’s sure his addled, alcohol soaked brain is playing tricks on him. He freezes in the doorway, his hand still gripping the knob. It’s not Sam nor Charlie, but Cas who stands in the hallway, his hand raised as if he was poised to knock again. Dean lets out a bubble of wheezing laughter, sure he’s finally gone crazy.

“Hello, Dean,” hallucination Cas says, his deep voice the exact timbre that haunts Dean’s dreams.

Without answering, Dean takes a step back and moves to shut the door, but Cas reaches out and puts a hand flat on the surface, holding it open. Huh. Hallucinations don’t do that.

“I know you don’t want to see me, but can I please come in?”

Without a word, Dean turns and walks back into the apartment, leaving Cas free to follow him. He lets out the breath he was holding at the click of the door closing and turns to see Cas standing in his living room. Cas is standing in his living room and Dean is in his boxers and the living room looks like it was ransacked. Perfect.

Cas’ blue eyes are wide as he takes in the scene, gaze flicking from Dean to the debris scattered around the room and back to Dean. “Is everything, I mean, were you robbed?” he blurts out.

“Jesus, Cas, I wasn’t robbed,” Dean snaps, “Just, you know, redecorating.”

Cas’ eyes widen even farther, and it’s clear he isn’t sure if Dean is joking.

“What are you doing here?” Dean asks with a sigh, resigned that he’s having a conversation he never wanted to have while dressed in nothing but a tee and boxers.

“I know you don’t want to see me, but I wanted, well, I wanted to explain,” Cas says on an exhale, as if he isn’t sure Dean will let him get the words out. “If you’ll let me,” he adds.

Dean shrugs. “How the hell did you even find me?”

“Gabriel gave me your address,” Cas admits sheepishly.

“Gabriel? The weird guy from the café?” Dean is confused, until he remembers filling out the little customer loyalty card. “Isn’t that against the rules or something, just passing out people’s addresses?”

“It is, and I know he shouldn’t have done it, but, well, my brother is not usually one to be reasoned with and when he saw how upset I,”

“Wait. What? Your brother?” Dean cuts off his chatter.

“Gabriel is my brother,” Cas confirms. He takes a few steps closer to where Dean is standing, but stops when Dean takes a step back toward the kitchen. “Dean, I know you’re angry with me, and you have a right to be. I wasn’t completely honest with you, but I want to explain.”

Dean turns away, scrubbing one hand down his face. “Why? Why do you even care? You got your laugh, jokes on me. Did you really need to come here and rub it in?”

“That’s not why I’m here, Dean. Please. There was never any joke. You were right when you said I made the ritual up, but I honestly was just trying to help,” Cas pleads, holding out his hands. Dean realizes he’s holding the little box he put the first four items in.

“Help? By making a fool out of me?” Dean bites out.

“Never, Dean,” Cas insists. “I wasn’t trying to trick you or make you look foolish. I was telling the truth when I said you reminded me of myself when I first came to the shop. I wanted so badly to help you, you were so broken, but I was afraid you would just leave if I told you I didn’t know a spell.”

“So you made one up?”

Cas nods, looking down at the box. “Magic isn’t like a recipe or a chemical equation. It’s just as much belief and action as it is herbs and candles and incantations. I know something about depression and the way the kind of heartache you were feeling can cut you off from the people who love you, can cut you off from the things that make you happy. So I made up steps that would encourage you to start living your life again.”

Dean scoffs. “So why lie to me? Why not just tell me? Why pretend you were reading it out of that book?”

Cas considers for a moment before answering. “You were so freaked out, especially the first day. I was surprised you came back, but I knew you had so many misconceptions about magic that if I gave you any reason to doubt me, you would leave and you wouldn’t come back. It was wrong of me to lie, and I’m truly sorry, Dean, but I really did want to help.” He raises one hand and runs it through his already messy hair, tugging on the longer strands, “And I desperately wanted you to come back, Dean.”

Dean takes a step back into the living room, toward Cas, and Cas visibly relaxes at Dean’s slight concession. “Why? Why did it matter to you? You didn’t know me at all. Hell, you couldn’t stand me at first.”

Cas smiles slightly, a soft grin barely reaching his eyes. “You’re right, the first day I thought you were a complete ass,” he offers with a small chuckle, “but you were so sincere the second time you came in that I wanted to help. I remember what it was like to feel like your whole world is crumbling, and Meg saved me. I wanted to do the same for you. By your third visit, my motives started to become a little more selfish.”

Dean’s eyes flick to his face, meeting Cas’ gaze for the first time since he entered the apartment. “Selfish?”

Cas takes a deep breath and lets it out before continuing. The slight waver in his breath attests to his nerves. “I wanted you to keep coming back because I wanted to see you, to spend time with you. I wanted so badly to ask for your number since the second week, but I didn’t know if you would welcome my interest.”

“You wanted to ask for my number?” Dean asks, stunned.

Cas nods, chewing on his lower lip as his deep blue eyes holds Dean’s gaze. “And then, two weeks ago when you came in, you were different. Flirtier. I thought I was imagining it at first, just because I wanted so badly to be someone you would flirt with, but by the time you left, I was convinced you were doing it on purpose. I decided I was going to confess about the ritual last Saturday when you came in. That’s why the book was on the counter where you found it. I was going to tell you I made the steps up and ask whether you still wanted to finish it. Either way, I was planning to ask you out.”

Dean’s eyes widen as Cas’ words hang in the air. He’s shocked speechless.

“You weren’t the only one who was falling, Dean,” Cas adds, holding out the box. Dean can see the blank book hidden under it. “We can still finish the ritual and put an end to that chapter. The book is blank, yes, but it just means we can write our own ending.”

Cas waits, unmoving, while Dean processes his words. Cas is apologizing. He wants to ask Dean out and he never meant to hurt Dean. Dean would almost think he was dreaming, but if he were going to fantasize this situation, he certainly wouldn’t be standing in his trashed living room in his underwear.

Dean closes the final few steps between them. Cas’ apprehension is visible in his eyes until Dean takes his hand and tugs him closer. He leans in, resting his forehead against Cas’ and lets out a shaky breath. “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

Happiness bursts to life in Cas’ eyes. “Please,” he sighs, his eyelids fluttering closed.

Dean slides one hand up to cup Cas’ cheek before leaning in to lightly press their mouths together, the slightest, teasing pressure as he brushes his lips against Cas’. He expected Cas’ stubble to feel weird, but the rasp of it against his own beard makes him draw in a gasping breath.

Cas’ hands come up to rest on Dean’s waist, tugging him closer until they’re standing pressed together. He can feel Cas’ heart beating against his chest as he runs his tongue lightly over the seam of Cas’ lips, encouraging him to let him in. Cas’ lips part with a sigh, and Dean licks inside, both hands cupping Cas’ face now. Cas tastes like coffee and sugar and a deep, dark chocolate, and Dean thinks he’s never tasted something so wonderful.

The soft press of Cas’ tongue sliding against his own elicits a groan. He wants more. He wants to suck Cas’ tongue into his mouth and he wants to caress Cas’ body, keeping it pressed tightly against his own. He wants everything, all at once. He wants this moment to never end.

Cas is mewling little gasps and whines into his mouth, clutching at Dean’s hips as he rocks them together. It sparks something wild and scorching inside Dean, and makes him want to drag Cas down the hall to his bedroom. They’re panting into each other’s mouths now, hands clutching each other closer, as if they are both afraid to let go, as if they are terrified this is a mirage.

Gasping for air, Dean forces himself to slow down, to tear himself away from Cas’ spit-slick lips and greedy hands. Not wanting to go too far, Dean presses a final soft kiss to the corner of Cas’ mouth before stepping back. He offers Cas a wobbly smile.  “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits softly.

Cas returns the smile. “Me too.”

“Do you have to get back to the store?”

Cas shakes his head. “Meg came in to cover for me today. She knew I had something important to do, so she gave me the day off.”

Dean glances down at himself and gives a self-deprecating grin. “Well, if you give me a chance to put some clothes on, maybe we could take a drive and grab some lunch?”

Cas’ grin lights up his eyes. “I would love to.”

Dean runs a hand across his jaw. “If you don’t mind waiting, I should probably shave too.”

Cas squints, tilting his head to the side as he studies Dean. He steps closer to lean up and whisper, his breath warm against Dean’s ear, “Maybe that could wait. I kind of like the way it feels.”

Dean shivers at the image his words elicit. He gives Cas a grin before heading down the hallway to get dressed. He’s eager to begin making all of those memories he’s been planning. “Okay, then,” he says, “Let’s get started on the first chapter.”


End file.
